


The Storm Waits

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel Has PTSD (Supernatural), Castiel Whump (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Castiel (Supernatural), Lawyer Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Minor Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Protective Dean Winchester, Rape Recovery, Religious Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22420231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: Fifteen years ago, Castiel was a student intern at the county prosecutor's office. His work put serial killer and sadist, Alastair Black, behind bars.Now, Castiel is the county prosecutor. Alastair Black has broken out of prison, and he is on the hunt for revenge.Dean always knew the work his husband did was dangerous. But he never imagined anything like this. He watches a strong man break. And now, it's up to him to help put the pieces back together.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 151
Kudos: 268
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, here is my first shot at an AU. Bit of a fish out of water here, but I'm excited!
> 
> Thanks to [jscribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jscribbles/pseuds/jscribbles) for betaing this chapter! You rock !

_ Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord. _

Romans 12:19

The music fills the air of the work space, drowning out any intruding thoughts that might dare to enter Dean’s mind. He is focused entirely on his work, savoring every moment of it. He will feel the muscle aches later tonight, but right now, he has a car above his head, grease on his hands, and he is loving it. While most people loathe going to work every morning, Dean enjoys it. He enjoys seeing what kinds of cars people would bring in, enjoys tinkering with the puzzle above him as he goes through the trial and error of diagnostics, then enjoys the manual labor of actually fixing the problem.

When there is so much on the outside world that he can’t fix, it is so nice to be in an environment where he can. Even if it is as simple as fixing a muffler, or doing an oil change, or knocking dents out of a bumper.

Dean is so engrossed in his work that when the music suddenly stops, he jolts, almost whacking his head on the undercarriage of his current project. He is drenched in sweat, shirt sticking to his skin, and he rolls out from under the car and sits up.

“What the hell?” he says, panting. 

Uncle Bobby sits at the small dinette table, a paper bag of takeout in front of him. “Union mandated lunch break. Get over here and eat, kid.”

Dean can smell the burger across the distance, over the stench of oil, grease, and rust, and his stomach rumbles. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He stands, a little shaky at first, and washes his hands in the small, dingy sink located in the corner. He sits down and they eat in silence for a moment before Bobby breaks it.

“Your boy did it again.”

“Huh?” Dean has ketchup on his fingertips. He licks it off, then spits; his skin still tastes like grease.

Bobby passes Dean his phone where there is a news video playing. Castiel stands outside of the courthouse, in front of a sea of reporters. The bottom text reads in large, bold letters  _ BREAKING NEWS: Walker found guilty of homicide, assault.  _

“We are pleased with the jury’s decision,” Castiel says confidently, “and ask that you please give the families their privacy at this time.” 

He walks off, ignoring the questions the reporters throw at him, ignoring the swears and boos others tossed his way. There are protesters, and signs written in slopply lettering ‘ _ Death Penalty for Walker’  _ and ‘ _ Don’t let a killer live’ _ .

Castiel walks past them all, unfazed, and then it cuts back to the news anchors, both looking enraged about something. The video ends.

“The jury was back with a verdict in less than forty minutes,” Bobby comments. 

“That’s a new record, I think.” Dean gives Bobby back his phone, and suddenly his appetite is gone. “It’s gonna be a rough night, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Always is, right after a case.” Cas has been working on this case for the past eight months; today, he put a man that kidnapped and killed nine men and women behind bars. But there won’t be relief. There won’t be a celebration. Cas will come home tonight, melancholic and quieter than normal. He’ll skip dinner to spend the evening in the bath, and then he’ll go to bed, and it’ll be like that until a new case lands on Cas’s desk. There’s usually never more than a few days between cases. 

The world is full of monsters, and Cas never wants for work.

Dean hopes the protestors don’t camp out in their front yard again. 

“Must mess with his head, to see all that stuff,” Bobby says. “The pictures and the bodies.”

Dean shrugs. “He doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“Can’t blame him.”

They don’t talk much after that. They eat in silence, even though the food has lost most of its flavor now. 

Then, he turns the music back on and gets back to work, trying to concentrate on the ache in his muscles instead of going home and lounging around with Cas. 

  
  
  
  


Cas is already home when Dean pulls into the driveway. There are three people with picket signs screaming at the front door. Dean growls and exits the car with fury in his bones.

“Hey! This is private property and you’re trespassing! Kansas has Castle Doctrine and I ain’t scared to make use of it.” Dean keeps his father’s old ivory .45 pistol in the glove compartment. 

“Ha!” One of the protesters--a large, burly man--laughs. “You know damn well that if anyone should be shot, it’s Gordon Walker. He should be off to the firing squad right now. But instead he gets to spend the rest of his life partying in a government facility, three hots and a cot, on our tax-paying dime!”

Dean rolls his eyes, wishing these people would come up with some new lines. He’s heard this one dozens of times before. It’s stale. 

Cas is behind that door, and all Dean wants is to curl up with him and watch Netflix. To try to cheer Cas up as much as possible. He storms past the three morons--the other two are screaming, “Justice!” at the top of their lungs, their signs decorated with some of Gordon Walker’s victims. 

“Face it,” the man continues at Dean’s back, “your fag husband cares more about the lives of criminals than justice for the victims.”

Dean freezes, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He spins on his heels, fury on his tongue. “Listen here you sonofabitch, you wanna fight? Let’s go!” Dean rolls up his sleeves, hands balled into fists.

“Dean.”

He stops. Inches away from the man’s very punchable face. 

“Leave them,” Cas continues. “The police are on their way. I suggest you leave before they get here.”

“You’re complicit,” the man continues. “If you really cared about victims, you’d push for the death penalty.”

“Dean, come inside, please.” 

Dean’s blood is still boiling, but he backs away slowly, the grass crunching under his feet. He turns once his heel hits the porch step, and he enters the house with Cas. Cas closes the door.

He’s stripped down to his white button up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His shoes are off and his face is flushed slightly. He’s already been drinking. 

“You really call the cops?” Dean asks. 

“I will,” Cas says, moving to the kitchen. “If they don’t leave within the next three minutes.”

Dean peeks past the blinds to see the trio, thankfully, packing their shit up. Cas nurses a glass of whiskey and leans against the kitchen island. 

“Another job well done,” Dean says.

Cas hums non-committedly, staring at the patterns in the granite. 

“You want to order in? Chinese? Pizza? Browse Netflix?”

“I’m not hungry,” Cas says. 

Dean’s not surprised by the answer, but he is disappointed. It’s just past five p.m. The sun is still up. It’s a sweltering summer evening and it won’t cool down for several more hours. 

“Don’t let them get to you,” Dean says. “They’re assholes with nothing better to do, clearly. Losers with no jobs. Certainly not something important as being the best damn prosecutor in the county.”

“I should be relieved,” Cas says, taking a long sip of his drink. “But nine people are still dead. Nine families ruined forever. Nothing will undo the damage.”

“No,” Dean says. “But Walker won’t be able to hurt anyone else.”

Cas stares at his whiskey glass, watching the ice cubes slowly melt. Dean notes the bottle, how much is gone. Cas only ever drinks once a verdict is reached, but then it’s a steady pace throughout the afternoon. 

Dean slips around the island and wraps his arms around Cas’s neck, leaning against his solid chest. “You want to talk about it?”

Cas shakes his head. Dean can hear Cas’s heartbeat. Steady and strong. Warm. 

“I think I’m going to go to bed,” Cas says, voice rumbling in his ribcage. 

Dean puts some space between them, frowning. 

Cas gives him a sad smile and kisses him, lips and breath tasting like whiskey. Then, he pulls himself from Dean’s arms and disappears up the stairs. 

Dean sighs. He finishes what’s left of the whiskey in Cas’s glass, then looks in the fridge. Nothing looks appetizing, and his hungry erodes away. Dean closes the fridge and sits down in the living room. He makes the mistake of turning on the TV.

The local news is still covering the verdict. It replays Cas’s earlier statement in front of the courthouse, clarifies the sentence: life in prison without possibility of parole. 

It cuts back to the anchors, caught in a heated debate; a repetitive cycle of what Dean’s always heard, of what the assholes on his lawn were screaming. The mantra of the last ten years. 

“--Walker should be headed to the death chair right now! Instead—”

“Why are we even surprised?” The other anchor interrupts, “Winchester never pursues the death penalty, even in cases—”

“Exactly! Why is this guy our herald hero? Why do we keep putting him in charge of these murderers? A man of the law should be objective and—”

Dean turns the TV off. He hears the bath running upstairs. The house is quiet, save for the water racing through the pipes. Dean looks at his hands, still stained with grease and he frowns, feeling gross and dirty. 

Their house is nice. Not super extravagant, but nicer than anything Dean grew up with. Soft carpet, granite countertops in the kitchen, appliances from this decade. Sometimes Dean can’t believe this is his life. That this house is his. His husband is his. That an educated, respected lawyer would settle down with someone like him; just the town mechanic, with only a GED.

The walls are decorated with photographs. Sam is in a lot of them, and Balthazar, Cas’s older brother. Dean’s parents. There is Dean and Cas’s wedding photo, just a small ceremony at the local courthouse, and their honeymoon in Port Aransas.

Sixteen year old Dean never would have imagined this. 

When Dean thinks about it, he realizes he is happy. He loves his job, his coworkers, his husband, his friends. He loves his family, who live only half an hour away, and they all have dinner together twice a month, for no reason than to just be around one another.

The water from above stops. 

Dean glances out the windows. The protestors are gone. The sod is torn up, though. Dean makes a note to work on that this weekend. It’s unfortunately a frequent occurrence. After ten years of marriage, Dean is still unused to the attention Cas’s career brings, both the good and the bad. Cas isn’t the most well-liked county figure.  _ Angel of Murderers _ was the title people put out last election year because Cas never has people tried for the death penalty. Not even the most heinous of criminals. Like Gordon Walker, who killed people and drank their blood.

_ “Thou shalt not kill _ ,” Cas says, whenever confronted with it. “ _ I am not going to be complicit in the death of another human being. _ ”

Dean doesn’t always understand it, but he respects the hell out of Cas for always sticking to his guns. He doesn’t let the mud-slinging of politics make him cave. And Dean’s always going to stand by Cas’s side. Cas has made his life so much better. A bright spot in the pit of darkness he had to crawl out from. 

Dean stands up, wincing at the knot in his back, a reminder that he’s constantly getting older. He slowly makes his way up the stairs, into their bedroom. The light is off in the bedroom, but shines from inside the bathroom, pouring onto the floor through the crack. Dean knocks once before opening the door and stepping in.

“Hey,” Dean says.

“Hello.”

He leans against the countertop and watches quietly for a moment. “You gonna get out anytime soon? You’re getting kind of pruney.”

Cas looks at his wrinkled fingertips and shrugs, then sinks deeper into the water. 

“C’mon.” Dean approaches the tub and sticks his hand out. Cas stares at it like it’s a snake about the lunge, before he takes it. Dean pulls Cas to his feet. His hair is stuck to his face; there are dark circles under his eyes. Goosebumps rise on his skin. Dean grabs a towel from the nearby rack and wraps it around Cas’s shoulders. Cas steps out, carefully. Dean offers a grin, and Cas only gives a shy one back. It’s something.

“I’m greasy,” Dean says, clearing his throat. Cas threads his fingers through Dean’s and kisses Dean’s knuckles.

“You smell good.”

“Pick out something on Netflix? I need a quick shower.”

Cas nods and untangles himself from Dean, slipping into the bedroom. Dean makes quick work of soaping up and rinsing off. The water barely has time to steam before he’s out, dressed in pajamas, and curling up to Cas in bed.

They watch  _ Animaniacs _ until the sun finally settles below the horizon and they drift off to sleep. 

  
  


They fall back into their routines for the following weeks. Cas gets a new case and spends his working hours in his office, going over evidence, interviewing family, witnesses, and the detectives. Dean works at the shop. They have dinner together. The news coverage of the Walker case trickles away, as there is nothing left for reporters to dig up, nothing left for people to harass Cas about. Dean relishes the routine; it’s comfortable.

Which is why, on a Tuesday evening, he begins to panic. 

It’s past six p.m. and Cas is not home yet. Sometimes he works late. It’s unavoidable in his job. But he always lets Dean know.

There are no messages. Dean stares at his call log, all having gone unanswered. He bites at his cuticle, knowing in his gut that something is wrong. He tries calling again. It rings and rings and rings, and then there is a soft click,  _ This is my voicemail _ —

Dean hangs up and paces around the living room. He turns on the TV for the traffic report, hoping it’s just something mundane. There was a wreck, surely, and Cas is just stuck in traffic, and he’s not answering his phone because he’s driving—

But there is nothing. Traffic moves without yield and there are no recent accidents to report.

Dean calls the office, but it’s past hours and it just goes straight to voicemail, requesting a message, ending with a polite, yet flat, “ _ We will return your call as soon as possible.” _

He hangs up again and continues to pace. 

Cas is perfectly, irritatingly, punctual. Dean knows he’s being paranoid, but there is an itch in his brain that he can’t reach, can’t soothe. 

Something is wrong.

He thinks of calling Sam, but decides against it because what is Sam going to do? They don’t work in the same firm, aren’t even in the same field.

Dean waits. 

It gets dark.

He snatches the keys off the countertop, slides into Baby and he drives. 

Lawrence, Kansas does not have much of a nightlife. Most of the streets are deserted already, shops closing up. Just people driving home from their jobs.

Dean makes it to Cas’s office in less than fifteen minutes. 

There are ten cop cars parked outside. Yellow crime scene tape is wrapped around the entire perimeter. There are two news vans with reporters already outside, holding their microphones, camera men filming them.

Dean parks the car, bile burning at the back of his throat. He briefly forgets to put the car in park and stumbles when he gets out of the car. He notices a spot of blood on the concrete right outside the door. Splotches of red travel back and around the corner of the main desk, out of sight. 

“Cas? Cas!” 

A police officer comes to him, hands outstretched. “Sir, you can’t be here, this is a crime scene.”

“What happened? My husband works here. What the hell happened!” His voice is frayed; panicked. He can’t take his eyes off the blood. Nausea rolls in his stomach. Bile burns at this throat. 

The officer pauses, blood draining from his face. “Last name?”

Dean swallows, mind buffering. “Winchester,” he says at last. 

The officer swallows and looks away from Dean. He turns to his radio, clicks the dial, then brings it to his mouth. “Boss? McKenney. We got the spouse.”

Dean’s heart slams against his ribs. The world seems to slow down and it’s an eternity before McKenney looks him in the eyes again. “Come with me, sir.”

He takes Dean’s elbow and guides him away from all the commotion. Dean’s throat is swollen, eyes aching. 

“What the hell is going on? Someone tell me!” His heart is racing. His skin is sweating. 

A woman comes up to him. Dean recognizes her--Jody Mills, the chief of police. She and Cas collaborate together a lot. She’s been over to his home before and had dinner. 

“Dean?” 

“Jody. Finally someone with brains!” Dean breaks from McKenney’s grip and rushes towards her. “Jody, what’s going on? Where’s Cas?”

Jody bites her lip. “Away from the cameras. We’re trying to keep this under wraps.” She leads him to her car. The sirens of the other cop cars flash behind her like concert lights. 

“Keep what?”

“You know Alastair Black?”

Dean’s brain skids to a halt. He blinks, mouth opening and closing several times before he gets the words out. “The serial killer?”

Jody nods grimly. “He broke out of prison two days ago. Killed a prison guard and an inmate. Dean, our IT guys already got the security footage. He has Castiel.”


	2. Chapter 2

The chair in the interrogation room is uncomfortable and cold. The coffee is lukewarm and bland. Dean’s eyes are puffy and sore, nose aching. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been alone. It feels like hours. He flinches when the door opens and Jody enters, with Donna Hanscum, her colleague. Donna has a laptop under her arm.

“You want anything to eat?” Jody asks.

Dean shakes his head. He has a tissue in his hand that’s been crumpled to pieces. 

“Jody,” he whispers. “Please. What happened?”

Jody shares a look with Donna. Both grim. Donna opens up the laptop. It’s already on a grainy screen. Dean recognizes the image as the door outside of Cas’s office. The time stamp in the bottom says 5:13 p.m. 

“Dean,” Donna says. “You don’t have to watch this.”

“I need to know!” he snaps. 

Donna sighs. She hits the spacebar. The video plays.

Cas exits the building. He takes two steps, then stops. Looks at something off camera, head tilted in curiosity. He’s talking to someone. Steps to the right. 

Another figure comes into frame. Cas goes rigid and puts his hands out in front of him. The figure has a gun. Dean’s heart goes into his throat and it freezes; his blood runs cold.

They continue talking, but the camera is too far away for Dean to try and read Cas’s lips. The man--Alastair, according to Jody--is tall, strangely thin, and moves in a way that’s unnatural. Gangly. His shoulders are rigid in an aggressive posture, feet awkwardly space apart. 

Alfie, Cas’s assistant, bursts outside, brandishing his own pistol. It’s a standoff, but Dean can tell from the camera work that Alfie is nervous and unpracticed. Alastair barely looks at the boy before he shoots him in the knee. Alfie goes down. Cas starts towards him, but then stops as Alastair moves the barrel from Alfie’s knee to his head. Cas stops. Takes several steps back. Hands still in the air. Alastair motions somewhere off camera. Cas’s eyes follow.

_ What do you see _ ?” Dean thinks, chewing on his lip.  _ What are you looking at _ ? 

Alastair closes the distance between him and Cas, turns Cas around, and puts the gun on Cas’s back. Alastair leads Cas off camera, out of sight. Donna pauses the video. 

There is static buzzing in the air for several long moments. Dean draws in a shaky breath. 

“Alfie?” he finally manages to ask. All the blood that was at the scene. It was Alfie’s. 

“He’ll be okay,” Jody says. “He managed to crawl back inside and call 911.”

Dean picks at a hangnail.

“Cas?”

Jody and Donna share a look. “We don’t know anything more at the moment,” Donna says. 

Alastair Black. It’s an old name, one Dean hasn’t even thought of in  _ years _ . But it’s a name etched into Lawrence’s history now, worse for wear. A prolific killer from a quiet town in the Midwest. A smear on the town’s history.

“The FBI is coming in,” Jody says. “They’re going to investigate how he managed to break out in the first place.” She reaches across the table and covers Dean’s hand with hers. It’s warm, soft. Like his mother’s. “Dean. If he follows his old M.O., he won’t kill Castiel. Not for a while. Especially because he’s revenge motivated.”

“M.O.?” Dean asks, voice barely above a whisper. “What do you mean? He kills people. That’s his M.O.”

The ladies share a look  _ again _ . Worried. Anxious.

“Dean,” Donna says gently, “what do you know of Alastair Black?”

Now he’s getting frustrated. He just watched a kid get shot and his husband get kidnapped by a psychopath. Why are they here questioning him when they should be out looking for Cas? Every second matters, and Cas could already be dead in a ditch—

“What are you getting at?” Dean snaps. 

“Castiel never told you about Black?” Jody asks.

“He--he doesn’t talk about work. He says he spends all day talking about the awful things people do to each other. He doesn’t want to dwell on it at home too. He’s always saying he’ll go crazy if he thinks about it too much.”

Jody’s hand is still on his. She squeezes and offers a sad smile. Like she understands. “Dean, I think we should stop here. The FBI will be here within the hour. We can resume then.”

“What aren’t you telling me, Jody?”

The smile slips from her face. Her eyes are glazy with tears. She opens her mouth, and air stutters out. Donna stands up, the chair screeching across the floor. 

“Let’s call your brother, yeah?” Donna says. “We’ll get someone to rest with ya.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” he repeats. “Don’t keep anything from me!”

“You can’t handle it right now, Dean,” Jody says quietly. “There’s nothing you can right now, okay? Right now you need to try to rest, and we’ll do our jobs, and we will find, Dean. I promise, we will find him and he’ll be okay.”

Dean opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a choked sound. Donna takes his elbow. He follows her to the small room where on-duty officers stop for naps where they can take it. The cot is uncomfortable and it creaks when Dean lays his weight on it. 

Time has lost all meaning. Was it really just this morning that he and Cas kissed goodbye? He tries to remember what he said to Cas. What Cas said to him. See you tonight, probably. Dean probably reminded Cas to not skip lunch. To take a walk around his office. Cas maybe said something about Dean needing to wear earplugs in the shop. Or to get fresh air, away from al the fumes. 

Now. 

Now. . .

Dean lets out a choked sob. Blood pressure so high he can feel it; his temples throb and his bones ache. He can’t steer his mind away from it--what aren’t they telling him? What is Alastair Black going to do to Cas?

Dean shakes his leg. The cot squeaks with the movement. He understands he’s having a panic attack and he tries to breathe through it. 

There is a knock on the door. Dean doesn’t acknowledge it, and the door opens. Sam stands in the doorway, face pinched. 

“Sam.” He sits up, head spinning. Colors blend together, shapes vanishing. 

Sam is by his side at once, patting his back. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Dean wants to throw up, but there is nothing in his stomach. 

Sam sits down, the bed dipping under his weight. Sam is a solid presence, and Dean is leaning against his brother, hanging on for life.

_ This isn’t right _ , some part of his brain thinks quietly.  _ I’m the big brother. Sam shouldn’t _ —

The voice is drowned out by Sam muttering reassurances into Dean’s ear, rubbing his back, just existing; filling an empty space. Dean takes a shaky breath. The air is cold and it pierces his lungs. He rubs at his eyes.

“Sam,” Dean says again, voice breaking. “He’s dead, Sam.”

“No, no, no,. Don’t think like that. Cas is strong. You know that. We’re gonna find him, Dean. The FBI’s here, they’re talking with Jody right now. We will find him.”

Dead in a ditch, Dean thinks bitterly. Dead at the bottom of a lake. Dead in a shallow grave. Dean’s nose is runny and he wipes it on his sleeve. He looks at the ceiling because he can’t stand to look into Sam’s puppy-dog eyes. 

“Why?” Dean finally manages to get out shakily. “Why would this freak go after Cas?”

Sam swallows, pauses, as he searches for the right words. “You know Cas was the one that tried him, right?”

“Not really. Cas was just the intern!”

Sam shushes him. Clearly there’s more to say, but Sam visibly decides against it. He shakes his head and his hand stabilizes Dean and he starts to rock slowly. “Just--just don’t think about it so much, okay?”

“Don’t think—”

“It’s not going to do you any good, and it’s not going to help Cas. With Jody’s people and the FBI, there’s gonna be a cop at every street corner. Wherever Black is, he’s not going to be able to lay low. He’ll be seen.”

Dean nods, but his throat is still tight, stomach still in knots, palms still sweaty, heart still slamming against his ribcage. 

“Do you want a sedative? We can get you a sedative.”

“No! No, fuck. No! I need to be awake, Cas needs my help—”

“Calm down, Dean, deep breaths. You’re hyperventilating. Slow down. Bag, is there a bag anywhere?”

Somehow, a brown paper bag is shoved into Dean’s hands and Dean is breathing into it, lungs shuddering. 

When the world finally slows down, Dean gulps. His hands tremble. Sam is still beside him, but now Jody is there, leaning against the doorframe. Her hair is wild, eyes bloodshot. 

“We need a medic?” she asks.

Dean shakes his head. “No,” he gasps, wincing at the ache in his throat. “No, I’m, I’m—” he stops himself, because he can’t say  _ okay _ , he’s not okay. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be okay. 

Jody steps into the room and sits in a nearby chair, pulling it so that she’s facing Dean. “FBI is doing their initial legwork. We got them looking at all the nearby cameras, and there’s a roadblock at all of the state lines: Nebraska, Oklahoma, Missouri, and Colorado. He ain’t getting away.”

Dean exhales. It only makes him feel heavier. 

“Sam, thanks for getting here so fast.”

“Of course.” Sam adjusts and the cot squeaks underneath him. “What do we know as of now?”

Jody’s eyes slip to Dean, calculating. Dean swallows. 

“I need to know too.” His voice cracks. 

Jody sighs, then draws a deep breath. “Alistair Black broke out of Topeka Federal Penitentiary in the hours between late Saturday night and early Sunday morning. Estimated time is approximately between elven p.m. and two a.m. He killed his cellmate and a prison guard and somehow traveled to Lawrence. Evidence found in his cell suggests that he broke out with the intention to go after Castiel.”

Dean suppresses a whine. 

“What evidence is this?” Sam presses. 

Again, Jody looks at Dean. “Sam, I don’t think it’s a good idea to do this now.”

“Tell us,” Dean snaps. 

Jody licks her lips. She looks directly at Dean. “We found newspapers. Articles about Castiel, about cases he’s taken on since Black’s conviction. No less than fifty of them spanning across the last fifteen years. Plus, there’s the comments he made about Castiel during the trial.”

Sam’s cheeks hollow, but Dean’s brows furrow. “What comments?”

Jody looks at him quizzically. “You don’t know?”

Why do people keep saying that? What is it they expect to already know? “This case was years before I met Cas!” 

“Dean, calm down,” Sam says, patting Dean’s back. 

Dean yanks his arm from Sam’s grip and stands up, stumbling as blood rushes back into his knees. He turns, back pressed against the door. 

“What else do we know?” Dean whispers, angry tears sliding down his face. 

Jody shifts in her chair. “He attacked Castiel in broad daylight, in front of witnesses. He either doesn’t fear the police, or is so arrogant he doesn’t think he’ll get caught. Which, he already got caught once, but that was over a decade ago. There’s no reason to suspect he’ll change his M.O. which means Castiel is not in any immediate fatal danger.”

Dean barks out a bitter laugh. “You’re joking, right? This guy's the most prolific killer to come out of Kansas, but sure, Cas isn’t in any danger. C’mon, Jody!”

“Dean,” Sam says warningly. 

Jody, however, is unperturbed. “It means we don’t have to worry about him killing Castiel within the next several hours, or even days.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “Jody’s right, we’re ending this now.”

“The hell we are—”

“Dean, shut up. I love you, but shut up. You’re going to give yourself a stroke.”

The paper bag in Dean’s hand crinkles. His knuckles are turning white. “You all know something that I don’t, and you just expect me to--to what? Just go to bed, like nothing’s wrong?”

Jody leans forward. For the first time, Dean notices the dark circles under her eyes; the lines at the edge of her face. Wear and tear from an unforgiving job. One that builds up baggage after baggage. How many sleepless nights does she have, Dean wonders? How many nights is she kept awake by the insidious  _ what-ifs _ that never shut up? “What good does it do for you to know right now?”

The question silences Dean. He stutters, but no sound comes out. What is she talking about? He  _ needs _ to know.

Jody continues, “The facts are, we don’t know a whole lot. We have theories, speculation, but nothing concrete, and nothing anyone will swear on their momma’s grave for. The facts also are, you’re gonna make yourself crazy if you think on it too hard. Do you trust me, Dean?”

Cas has never said a bad word about Jody Mills. Always full of praise. 

“Yeah,” Dean says with a slight nod.

“Then trust that we will find him. Right now, hard as it may be, you gotta accept there’s nothing you can do for Cas. Help him by helping yourself. He’s gonna need you healthy and upright when he comes home, right?”

Dean nods again. His mind is in a fugue. Jody’s words circle around his head. The pressure is still there, deep in his throat, behind his eyes. 

“So, take the damn sedative, try and get some sleep, and we’ll talk soon as we know more. Okay?” 

His mouth is dry. It hurts to talk. “Okay.” His voice cracks on the syllables. It’s not okay. He gets it. He knows she’s right. But it’s not okay. It can’t ever be okay. 

But people are moving around him. Jody leaves briefly, but Sam is still there, still rubbing at his back, muttering something, but Dean can’t focus on the words. It’s too much.

Jody comes back with someone, a young woman. Dean thinks she introduces herself as Alex. She talks in a pleasant enough voice, hands Dean a small blue pill with a paper cup of water. He swallows the pill. The water tastes acidic and it makes his already aching stomach turn.

He zones out. They continue to talk around him, their voices shrouded in static, unintelligible. Colors mute. He takes in a shaky breath, finds a corner to stare at, and lets the world narrow down to just that one space.

He twists his wedding ring.

* * *

  
  


It isn’t until seven a.m. the next morning that Dean next speaks.

“Balthazar.”

“What’s that?” Sam says groggily. His hair is in tangles.

“We need to tell Balthazar.” He continues to twist his wedding ring.

“Oh.” Sam stretches. “Jody’s already on it. He’s supposed to be coming in this afternoon.”

Dean nods, already dreading that confrontation. He and Balthazar only tolerate each other for Cas’s sake; a mutual agreement they made years ago. They don’t like each other. Balthazar, like Cas’s aunt and uncle, objected to the marriage.

_ He’s not good for you, Cassie,  _ Balthazar said, right in front of Dean.  _ Can’t you see it? You can do so much better.  _

Dean can’t recall ever being so angry. So hurt. The audacity of the man, to barge into their home and say that, right in their own kitchen. . .

_ Balthazar, that’s enough!  _

Castiel, who so rarely ever raised his voice, probably silenced the entire neighborhood with his shout. 

_ Dean and I are getting married. I’d like you to be there. But if you can’t accept that we love one another, that he makes me happy. . . then don’t bother showing up to the wedding. Or ever again.  _

_ I just want you to be safe, Cassie. What if something goes wrong? I’m halfway across the country and you really expect a mechanic to protect you?  _

At the time, Dean had been furiously offended. Now, he has to come face to face with Balthazar and admit that Balthazar was right. Dean couldn’t protect Cas.

_ You can do so much better, Cassie. He didn’t even finish high school, for Christ’s sake! _

_ You can leave now, Balthazar.  _

Sam nudges Dean’s shoulder. “The doctors have cleared Alfie to be interviewed. You gonna want to see him?”

The image of the poor kid getting shot replays in Dean’s mind. Damn idiot should have just stayed behind the counter. Couldn’t even hold the damn pistol steady and he goes blazing after a maniac. 

“I guess we probably should.” Dean’s voice cracks. He needs water, but he doesn’t think he could keep any down. 

Dean stands up and Sam directs him to the bathroom. He’s gamey by now, but he only stays in there long enough to pee and wash his face and arm pits in the sink. He stares at his reflection in the mirror; eyes bloodshot, complexion pale. He feels like he’s aged twenty years overnight, and his reflection seems to agree with him. He barely recognizes himself. 

He splashes more water on his face and doesn’t bother to dry off when he exits. He turns the corner with Sam and the police station is suddenly very different from last night. What was quiet and calm just a few hours ago is now busy, bustling with dozens of different people talking in different accents, computers set up in all corners, unfamiliar men and women walking around, speaking so loud and fast Dean can’t keep up with what is being said. Several of them are wearing FBI blazers and earpieces. Donna is talking to one man off in the corner, examining what looks like surveillance footage.

“C’mon,” Sam says, tugging Dean’s arms. “Nothing you can do.”

“But—”

“I know.” Sam looks at him with those friggin puppy dog eyes that Dean hates so friggin much. “The best way to help is to let them do their work.”

Jody leads a man in an FBI jacket towards them. “Boys, this is Henrickson.”

“Gentlemen,” Henrickson says, shaking their hands. Dean doesn’t have to energy to give a proper handshake; his limb is like a dead fish. 

“Henrickson’s gonna take you to the hospital in an unmarked van,” Jody says. “The vultures are already starting to sniff this out and we want it as quiet as possible.”

Dean looks out the window. Sure enough, there are several different news vans parked outside. Cameramen are setting up their equipment and the reporters are fixing their hair and retouching their makeup.

“What do they know?” Sam asks. 

Dean keeps staring at them. 

“That Black has broken out of prison. Wasn’t able to keep that underwraps for much longer anyway. That’s all that’s public knowledge for now. No one knows that Castiel was taken and we will try to keep that underwraps for as long as possible.”

Dean imagines the anchors getting a hold of that ‘story.’ His blood boils under his skin at just the thought. They’d have a field day with it. They’d never let it rest--a dead horse they’d beat and flay until even the bones were nothing but dust. Dean recognizes a few of the faces out there; local media that have hounded Cas for years, tried at every turn to discredit Cas, or make him out to be some kind of heartless monster. If they knew the truth, they would eat it up. Relish in the schadenfreude. 

Dean hates them. 

“We’ll have you get in the car around back,” Henrickson says. “Too many eyes out there.”

“No kidding,” Sam says, disgusted. “Shit, how long have they been out there?”

“Since three a.m.,” Jody says.

They follow Henrickson, dodging all the people that have made the Lawrence police station their new headquarters. Dean doesn’t recognize most of the equipment, but he knows it’s all super fancy and government issued. The various screens are filtered in greens, grays, and blues. Several of them are talking on the phone, discussing roadblocks, suspicious vehicles, and whether or not to issue emergency alerts over cell phones and the Interstate alert signage. 

Dean inhales and thinks back to what Sam says. There is nothing he can to help right now. He just has to let it flow over him. 

His heart is still aching in his chest, though; stomach acid feeling like it’s going to gnaw through his muscles, out of his skin.

Henrickson’s car is a silver SUV. There is nothing remarkable about it, except for the tinted windows. Dean gets in the backseat first, followed by Sam. Henrickson gets in the driver’s seat. 

“My team have already begun their interview of your friend, Alfie Matthews,” Henrickson says as the car starts to move. He has to drive cautiously around the reporters, who seem to think they can just stand right in the way and not move one inch. “As the only witness to the crime, his testimony is vital. We will go where he leads us.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam says. “It was bright daylight. How could no one else have seen anything?”

Henrickson grins morosely. “There are more than likely several other witnesses, but none have come forward so far. They will in time, if my experience has taught me anything.”

Dean stares out the window towards the sky. It’s a pretty blue color already. Birds are flying overhead. The leaves move with the wind. It’s almost a perfectly normal day.

How can it be so normal? Cas is gone. Taken. And yet, people are still going about their lives. They woke up with their alarm, got dressed, went to work. Children got on the school bus, cartoon lunch boxes tightly in hand. The Earth still spins. 

But Dean’s world is shattering. His universe is cracked and caving in on itself. How can everything be so normal for everyone else, when his life is upheaved and thrown backwards? It’s not fair. They don’t even know that Cas is missing. They don’t know what the world is missing. They should be grieving with Dean. They should be terrified with him. They should be crying, they should be terrified, they should be worried sick with him.

And they’re not.

They’re going to live their daily routines and they’re going to come home, and complain about the neighbor’s dog, about their noisy coworker, about their in-laws visiting. Complain about  _ nothing _ . Like it matters. Like it makes a difference.

And Dean’s world is still shattering. 

* * *

Alfie’s hospital room is on the sixth floor, tucked away in the corner. Two men dressed in suits stand outside, quietly talking and flipping through small notebooks. Henrickson leads the way, stride long and confident. 

“All done, boys?” Henrickson asks. 

They nod. “Just finished up. We can go over the notes now if you want, boss.”

“Let’s do that. Dean, Sam, why don’t you go check on your friend?”

Alfie is in a single room. There’s some cheesy romcom playing on the TV, but he doesn’t seem that interested; he’s staring out the window when they walk in, startling him. There’s a brief spike on his heart monitor, then it slowly relaxes as he sees who his new visitors are.

“Hey, Alfie,” Dean manages, voice cracked. He takes a moment to look the kid over. All things considered, he doesn’t look bad. He’s a little pale and there’s a large bandage on his right knee which is propped up on several pillows. There is also the IV and oxygen cannula, but he certainly doesn’t look like he’s knocking on death’s door. 

“Dean.” He tries to sit up, winces, then forgoes the effort, falling back against his pillows. 

“Uh, this is my brother, Sam.” 

Sam greets him and they share an awkward handshake as Alfie has to use his left hand because the IV in his right doesn’t reach over far enough. 

“What’s the damage, kid?” Dean says, shifting his weight awkwardly on his feet. 

Alfie points to his knee and taps it gently over the bandages. “Docs say the bullet nicked an artery. So, there was a lot of blood loss, and that was the big danger really. They got the bleeding under control, then took me to surgery to fix it up. Still pretty light headed, but they think I might be able to go home tomorrow, once I’ve uh, refilled back on good ole O-neg.”

Dean lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “That’s good.” He thinks back to the video footage; of Alfie just dropping down. All the blood that had been on the concrete outside, trailing back inside to the office. Idiot kid. 

Alfie looks away and licks his lips. “Dean. I’m--I’m really sorry. So so so sorry.”

Dean frowns. “What?”

“I could’ve shot the bastard and I didn’t. I hesitated. And Castiel--Castiel went with him because of me. Black said he would shoot me in the face if Castiel didn’t go with him.”

The  _ beeping _ of Alfie’s monitor intensifies. 

“I just, I just, I don’t know why I didn’t, he was right  _ there _ , I had the gun, it would’ve, it would’ve been  _ easy _ , I just had to pull—”

“Alfie, Alfie, calm down.” Dean goes to his side and puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “Kid, stop, stop. Take a breath.”

“This is my fault, Dean, I could’ve stopped it—”

“Alfie, shut up!” 

Alfie stops and takes in a shuddering breath. 

“It’s not your fault,” Dean says. He looks the boy in the eye. It strikes Dean how young Alfie really is. Jesus, is the kid even old enough to buy a beer? “What you did was very brave.” Dean means it with all his heart. He knows it took a lot of guts to point a gun at a deranged criminal. “Cas cares about you. A lot.” Dean’s throat tightens. “He’d do anything to protect you.” 

Alfie’s eyes are starting to water. He rubs at his IV port. “I’m scared for him, Dean.”

Dean’s crying.  _ Again.  _ “Me too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/castielsdisciple)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep the archive warnings and tags in mind as this story progresses. I am happy to answer any questions about content/triggers in DMs (to avoid leaving spoilers in comments)
> 
> This chapter beta'ed by the wonderful [captainhaterade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhaterade/profile)

Twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four hours in, and no one has anything. No sightings. No suspicious activity. Nothing to help get a lead on where Cas might be.

Cas’s cell phone was found in the dumpster outside his office, battery dead. Alastair probably made him throw it out right after Alfie was shot, so it gives the police nothing in terms of a timeline or a direction they moved in. 

Balthazar makes it in just around four in the afternoon, looking worse than Dean’s ever seen him before. Sam picks him up from the airport and takes him to Dean’s home and they sit awkwardly in the living room, barely acknowledging each other with a polite, yet empty, hello. 

Sam orders Thai food, but Dean can’t eat. Everything is flavorless, turning to ash in his mouth. He catches Balthzar staring at their wedding picture.

After forty minutes of the agony, he can’t take it anymore.

“You got something to say, say it.”

“Dean,” Sam admonishes. 

“No, let’s hear it. C’mon, big guy, we can all smell the smoke coming out your ears anyway.”

Balthazar huffs. “It’s nothing you don’t already know.” He pauses, picking at his rice. “Though I suppose there is actually a lot you don’t know.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Will you two knock it off?” 

“Just,” Balthazar continues, ignoring Sam completely, “that I was right. This, this, marriage--was a bad idea from the start.”

“Are you blaming me for this?”

“Well, if it weren’t for you, Cassie would’ve taken that job in New York, and this wouldn’t have happened. He’d be far away from this country farm dump.”

“He didn’t want that job! I didn’t make him stay here!”

“Whatever helps you sleep better at night.”

“Fuck you,” Dean spits.

“Enough!” Sam slams his hands against the table and stands to his full height, towering over even Balthazar. “Both of you, enough! God. Still bickering, after everything. How is this helping Cas?”

Neither of them speak. The dead air hangs heavy in the air. Sam turns to Balthazar first.

“Cas made his own decisions every step of the way, got it? Dean’s never made him do anything.” To Dean, “And you—you know he antagonizes you on purpose. Just ignore him!”

Shame crawls up Dean’s spine, but so does fury, indignation. Sam just doesn’t get it. He never has. Cas’s family has always looked down on him, like he’s lesser just for existing. Like he’s some giant mistake in Cas’s life. And now Sam is chastising him like he’s a misbehaving child. Like he’s in the wrong. 

Dean stands up and walks away. He can’t handle this right now. He can’t handle Balthazar on a good day, but  _ now _ ? He doesn’t need that sneer stabbing into his back. He doesn’t need that condescending, insinuating tone digging into his brain

Dean storms up the stairs. Sam calls after him, but Dean ignores him, slamming the bedroom door. He presses his back against it, holds his breath until his lungs threaten to burst. Then, he slides down the door, to the floor, and he stays there, the analog clock  _ tick, tick, tick _ ing. 

After time passes, Dean swallows. He takes his phone out of his pocket and opens the browser. He stares at the blank search bar for a moment, chest tight. Slowly, he types it out. 

_ Alastair Black _

In less than a second, thousands of articles pop up. The top ones are recent, discussing the jailbreak. Dean scrolls aimlessly for a while until he finds one that’s a bit older.

_ The Midwestern Demon: The Crimes of Alastair Black _

His stomach is in knots. But everyone knows something he doesn’t. And no one will tell him anything. He opens the article.

The first thing he sees is a photo of the man. He’s tall and gaunt, like a walking skeleton. His skin is pulled tight across his face. His eyes are empty, like two bottomless holes. There’s nothing there. No empathy, no humanity; not even hatred or anger. Nothing. 

The article is long. Written five years after his trial, it begins by discussing his routine in prison. Dean skims over it, completely disinterested. It doesn’t make a difference because the man is not in prison, he’s out and he’s got Cas and he’s, he’s—-

The author describes him as a sexual sadist. The bodies of his victims were found mutilated. Emaciated. Buried in shallow graves. Despite the torture he inflicted on his victims, the cause of death for over half of them was listed as starvation. 

_ Killing them was not the point _ , the author wrote.  _ The point was their suffering. His victims lasted from fifty days all the way to upwards of six months under his ‘care.’ He wanted to see them hurt, and dead bodies don’t experience pain.  _

Dean can’t breathe. And worse, he can’t stop reading.

_ Evidence suggests that not only were his victims repeatedly sexually assaulted, they were cut, shocked, sleep deprived, and bound to beds or poles for extended periods of time. Detectives at the scene described Black’s so-called torture rack as “one of the most gruesome, nightmare-inducing things I’ve seen in all my years.” _

Dean throws his phone. It smashes against the wall, an audible  _ crack _ filling the air. Then it thuds to the ground, screen totally black and cracked beyond recognition. 

He’s never heard that part of the story before. It was always just that this crazy guy killed a bunch of people. Dean had never really given much thought to the why or how. He didn’t know all this other stuff; never would have dreamed of someone being capable of such evils. Dean is nauseous just from reading the article and knows in his gut that it barely scratches the surface of reality. It doesn’t come close to explaining the true suffering those people endured: their pain, their fear, their agony. The article is too clinical. Too removed from the situation. 

Cas is there. Cas is in the hands of that maniac; becoming just one more tally mark on this guy’s hit list. He understands why Jody and the others didn’t outright explain the danger Cas was in. They thought he already knew, but also, just speaking of the atrocities this psychopath committed is physically difficult. There’s a blockage in Dean’s throat just thinking about having to say those words out loud, especially in reference to Cas.

Now that he knows, the anger is gone. But the worry, the anxiety, the fear, the anguish—it’s heightened, tenfold. Alastair Black is doing those things to Cas right now. At this moment, as Dean sits in the security of his bedroom, Cas is god knows where, undergoing—

The word presses against the door of his mind, fighting to get in. Dean can’t keep it out. It’s too strong, and he’s too weak.

Rape.

A choked sob forces its way out. Dean brings his knees to his chest and digs his fingers into his scalp. The pain doesn’t register. It’s mute against the cacophony of his mind, screaming in time with his heartbeat:  _ Cas is being raped.  _

And there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s useless. Less than useless. Just sitting here on his ass, unable to do anything, contribute anything. Jody’s got the entire Lawrence PD and a team of FBI agents on the case, but it’s been twenty-four hours and they have found  _ nothing _ . Not even a single hair to point them in any direction to where Cas might be. It’s like they both just vanished, evaporated into the air. 

They could be all the way on the west coast by now. Or down to Mexico. Where do you start looking when a person could have moved in any direction? When time can’t be wasted? 

Fifty days. The shortest amount of time the psycho kept someone was fifty days. Most people, longer, before their suffering finally ended. Dean's not sure which is worse. Longer gives them more time to find Cas. But is the cost worth it? 

Dean inhales; holds it.  _ Cas, just hold on.  _

Exhales, slowly.

_ Wherever you are, just hold on. Please.  _

  
  


* * *

Three days pass.

The only lead the investigation hits is a report of a stolen car just a mile from the facility Alastair broke out of. A maroon ‘98 Camry, with a valid license plate. 

It’s something. 

On the surface, everything seems quiet. But Dean knows that the law enforcement of the entire country is on the lookout for that car. APBs are sent out, and alerts are posted on the interstate signs. It’s better than where the investigation was just a few days ago, when they had bupkis. There’s a bite of something they can work with. 

But things also get worse. 

Reporters discover that Cas is missing, and now they parade the story across their headlines. Dean knows it wasn’t going to be kept a secret forever; Alfie was shot right outside the office, and Cas wasn’t appearing to make a statement. 

Dean can’t stand to watch TV at all. Everytime he turns it on, Cas’s photo is on there, and they just  _ keep _ talking about it, never resting for one moment, never giving it a reprieve, never pausing for a breath. How can they act like it’s not truly real? Like Cas isn’t a living person, doesn’t have a family with feelings? Like this isn’t an actual nightmare for the people involved? Not just some story to tell for money. 

They tried, at first, to camp out on Dean’s lawn, harassing him, Sam, Balthazar, Jody—anyone who stepped foot on the grass—and they wouldn’t leave, no matter how much yelling and threatening Dean did. Jody’s got one of her guys staked out there now, at all times, to keep the vultures away, but it doesn’t soothe Dean’s nerves any. 

It shouldn’t be like this.

In three days, he’s lost ten pounds. He can’t force himself to eat. He has to take pills to sleep. Even then, it’s not a restful sleep, but fitful and shallow, and he comes too groggy to function and in a haze. Balthazar continues to be abrasive and aggressive, his eyes murderous daggers every time he glances Dean’s way. Sam treats him with kid gloves, clearly unsure of how to behave around Dean. 

Dean spends his days sitting in the living room, an ugly ulcer on the couch, staring at the photos on the wall. Sunrise to sunset. 

_ Tick, tick, tick. _

  
  


* * *

Seven days.

“Why Cas? Of all people, why Cas?” He finally voices aloud the burning question that’s been rooted into his brain. 

Donna taps her pen against the metal table. “You know he was on the prosecution for Black’s trail.”

“But, he—he wasn’t the prosecutor. He was just an intern at the time. Didn’t even have his degree.”

Donna nods. “Yes, technically, he was only an intern. But he handled the case all on his own. Anna Milton really was only a supervisor, for legality. She was very hands-off with her students--liked to see what they could do on their own. Castiel really never discussed this with you?”

“He doesn’t talk about his work,” Dean says, for what feels like the hundredth time. The brief bubble of fury pops. Leaves behind, once more, anguish and grief. “So—so is that why Cas? ‘Cause he blames Cas?”

Donna looks away and bites her lip.

“C’mon, Donna. You’ve got to tell me.”

She inhales and nods. “You’re right. I do. It appears that Black had a previous obsession with Castiel.”

Dean flinches. “What?”

Donna pulls at her laptop, types for a minute without speaking, then turns the screen towards him. It’s only a still at first, but Dean recognizes the courtroom setting. Cas is there, on the floor in front of the judge’s bench. Donna hits the spacebar and the video plays.

Dean is taken aback by how young Cas looks. He does the quick math and realizes Cas would’ve been twenty-five at this time. It shows. His suit doesn’t even fit him properly, too big in the arms. Like a kid dressing up in his dad’s clothes. 

“Mr. Black,” Cas says, voice confident, but without intonation, “can you confirm your relationship to the victim, Martin Wilmur?”

Alastair Black is cool-headed with a Chesire grin. “None. Never even heard of the chap before this little dog and pony show.”

Cas hits a button on the remote in his hand. The slideshow goes to a picture of a man—a college graduation photo. He’s smiling and holding his degree in his hands, tassel dangling in front of his eyes. 

“Do you recognize this man?”

“That man? In the photo? Nope.”

“May I remind you that you are under oath?”

Alastair chuckles. It’s nasally and sinister. It sends chills down Dean’s spine. “So help me God, right? But whose God? Yours?”

“Answer the question.”

Alastair leans forward against the podium, a lecherous grin on his face. He rests in his chin in his hands. “You’re very pretty, counsellor. Tell me, are you a virgin?”

Even from the video, Dean can feel the air being sucked out of the courtroom. The judge bangs her gavel; the defense lawyer covers his face with his hands. 

“Mr. Black!” the judge cries.

“You’re a little angel,” Alastair continues, “and you deserve to be kept safe and sound, not thrown out into the cruel, cold world.”

The gavel bangs again. “Mr. Black, you will be held in contempt!”

“Why the things I could do—”

The bailiff steps up to the podium and is handcuffing Alastair’s hands behind his back, but he is still talking, pervy, disgusting, and the tips of Cas’s ears are blister red as he stutters. Alastair Black is led out of the courtroom, down the little walkway, but he looks over his shoulder and blows a kiss and winks.

Donna pauses the video. 

“I’m gonna be sick,” Dean says, wrapping his arms around his stomach. Donna turns the computer away from Dean and closes the lid.

“I’m sorry,” Donna says. She reaches out and touches Dean’s elbow. The usually cheerful woman’s eyes are devoid of any joy. Just sadness. A touch of pity. “But you need to know what we’re up against.”

She swallows and lifts her chin. “There were also notes found in his cell. You know he’d been collecting newspaper articles about Castiel’s work, but that wasn’t all. This was premeditated. For a long time, it seems. We found poetry, artwork.”

Bile burns at Dean’s throat. 

“I know it’s scary, but there is a silver lining.”

“Yeah?” Dean barks. “And that would be?”

“Alastair Black’s intentions are not to kill Castiel. Whatever happens, we can handle it, we can fix it, as long as he’s not dead.”

  
  


* * *

Fifteen Days.

Balthazar finally leaves, with much coercion from Sam, and with promises of daily updates, even though there’s never anything new to report. In his place come Cas’s aunt and uncle, who are somehow even worse than Balthazar. Who, after ten years, still insist on referring to Dean as Cas’s roommate. 

He doesn’t know why they’re here. They’ve barely been a part of Cas’s life in recent years. They refused to come to the wedding. Cas didn’t say much at the time, but Dean knows it devastated him. The people that raised him wouldn’t have anything to do with one of the biggest days of his life. 

Naomi and Zachariah Novak are cold, joyless people. If Balthazar raises Dean’s blood pressure, these two bring on blood clots in his brain. He thinks he can feel the embolism in his brain stem. It doesn’t help that Zachariah’s face is just so punchable.

“I told the kid he should’ve gone corporate,” Zachariah says, a glass of whiskey in his hand, looking over the rest of the stash across the room. “More money, less danger.”

Naomi rubs her fingers across the coffee table and frowns. “This place really needs a good dusting.”

“Sorry,” Dean says with every barb of poison he can muster. “Haven’t found the time to do the spring cleaning. Been a bit busy.”

She looks at him with that judgmental glare. Prim, proper, with her hair up in a bun and a tailored suit, despite having just stepped off an airplane. She looks at him like a snake about to devour prey and she huffs.

“You’ve been busy doing what? Wallowing in self pity? That’s just unbecoming of you, Dean. You need to keep yourself occupied. Plus, a clean house will make you feel better.”

“The only thing that will make me feel better is when Cas is home.”

“And are you going to make that happen?” Naomi is steely, voice flat. Calculating. Despite having no blood relation, Dean can see the similarities between her and Cas; at least, when Cas is in the courtroom. 

But Cas isn’t like her. He’s kind, caring. He has a heart. Sometimes he has to wall it up to do his job, to do good, but at his core, he’s  _ good _ . And every second Dean spends with Naomi and Zachariah is a second his heart aches for Cas, because it gets him thinking about the home Cas grew up in. One devoid of praise and affection. One where nothing was ever good enough. These people raised Cas for thirteen years, but he’s missing, and they’re acting like it’s an inconvenience. 

At his silence, Naomi sighs dramatically and leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Look,” she says, clapping her hands. “Much of life is outside our control. There’s nothing we can do to fix it or change it. It’s in God’s hands. If it is His will that Castiel comes home, then so saith the Lord. If not. . .” 

Dean trembles with rage. Zachariah polishes off his glass and begins to pour himself another. 

“And you’re okay with that?” he whispers, anger ripping at his throat. His bones shift under his skin. “You’re okay with him dying?”

“It’s not my place to question God’s will.”

Dean shoots to his feet. “This is God’s will?” He towers over her. She looks at him, uninterested, unfazed. “This—this is not the work of God! This is the work of some psychopath! God has nothing to do with it and, and I can’t just--you want to throw your hands up? Not do anything? I can’t do nothing. You might be okay with that, but I’m not!”

“Lower your voice,” Zachariah says, shaking his head. The ice cubes clink in the glass. It’s the most aggravating sound Dean has ever heard. 

“Why are you two even here? Because you care about Cas?” Dean sneers. “What are you getting out of it, really?”

Now Zachariah gives him a steely glare. “I raised that boy as my own, Dean. If I didn’t care, I could’ve seen both boys thrown into state homes and never gave them a second thought. Child rearing definitely was not something I was privy to. And would anyone have thought me the bad guy if I had just walked away? They weren’t my responsibility just because my brother ditched them. I made the choice to take them in and raise them.”

“You resented Cas,” Dean snaps. 

Zachariah rolls his eyes. “I resented my brother for abandoning those boys, but family is family. They were raised together, had a roof over their head, food in their bellies. If I really didn’t care, I certainly didn’t have to care so much.”

God, Dean wants to punch his face in; knock his teeth out. Break his nose. Punch and punch and punch. How can this man be so blind? Dean’s despised Zachariah and Naomi Novak from the first moment he met them. They are self-righteous pricks that can’t see past their own noses. They believe they did right by Cas and Balthazar just because their physical needs were met. But Dean knows that’s all they provided. Cas grew up in a home devoid of affection, of true nurturing. It took over a year of dating before he was comfortable with Dean showing him any sort of physical affection; over a year before he was comfortable reciprocating. 

How can he stand there and say he cares about Cas, call Cas family, when he is perfectly happy to sit with his thumb up his ass, shrug his shoulders, and say,  _ It’s in God’s hands now. _

Fuck that.

And fuck them.

“So, if Cas dies, you don’t give a hoot?”

Naomi gnaws on her lip. “Why give a hoot about that which we cannot change?”

Dean can’t take it anymore. He walks out his own front door, desperate to be away from them. His anger is re-ignited. Anger at Cas’s dad for walking out. Anger at his aunt and uncle for the way Cas was raised. Anger at their indifference. Anger at their supposed God that controls the universe. 

He can’t be here. He walks. And walks. And walks. Desperate for something to clear his mind. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Twenty-Five Days.

Everyone keeps telling him he needs to get back into a routine. Keep his mind off things. He can’t do anything for long without thinking of Cas, fretting, worrying, anxiety crippling him. He tries to go back to work, but he can’t focus on engines, wrenches, oils, when Cas is still out there somewhere. He almost breaks Bobby’s foot when he drops a wrench, distracted by the horror and  _ what-ifs _ . After that, Bobby sends him to desk duty. He spends the days working through billing, payroll, managing appointments, and all the paperwork duties that come with owning a business.

It’s tedious. But it’s predictable, and it’s quiet. Away from customers, away from noise. He tries to drown out his thoughts by calculating profits from the past month, staring at the spreadsheet until he goes cross-eyed. It never distracts him for more than a few minutes at a time. But it’s a reprieve, at least, and he knows that’s what everyone is trying to give him. 

Jody and Henrickson have stopped trying to give him updates. There’s nothing to report, and each new round of nothing only makes Dean sicker, only makes him worry more. Everyone keeps telling him to just keep things as normal as possible. They mean well; he understands that. But they don’t  _ get  _ it. Things can’t be normal as long as Cas is gone. 

Because what’s normal about falling asleep by himself? What’s normal about eating alone on the kitchen floor? What’s normal about a police officer patrolling his front yard to keep reporters away?

He’s lost ten more pounds and dropped two pant sizes. His belt is cinched to the innermost hole, and even then, his pants still hang loosely on his hips. He can’t eat. He can’t sleep. He can’t let his mind rest for a single moment, not while Cas is still gone. How can they expect him to just keep moving on, when his life is literally falling apart?

He’s spent a few nights at Sam’s apartment, with his fiancee, Eileen, because he can’t take the silence of the house. But they tread cautiously around him, too. Their words are chosen with surgical precision. They move around him like he’s a frightened animal, coiled to attack. They are careful not to mention anything remotely related to Cas, the case, the police. Anything that might trigger Dean.

They think they’re being sneaky, but Dean notices it all. And he’s not sure if he hates them for it, or if he’s grateful to them for it. On one hand, he can’t talk about Cas. It hurts too much. On the other, how can people so easily go about pretending like everything’s okay? How can they so easily go about acting like he never existed? 

But there’s nothing that can be done. At least, that’s what people keep saying. Let the police do their job. Help Cas by helping himself.

Dean hates feeling so useless. Hates waiting, biding his time. It lets his mind run to dark places; imagines what Cas is possibly going through at every exact moment. Dean could only ever scrape up the courage to read that one article. He knows there are hundreds more. He knows there’s at least one Dateline documentary on the life and crimes of Alastair Black.

Dean doesn’t interact. If he sees anything more on the subject, he will go mad. He knows his sanity is only barely intact as it is. He’s on the precipice of breaking. 

So, he tries to busy his mind by staring at boring spreadsheets, by crunching numbers that mean absolutely nothing to him, by avoiding his home as much as possible. And he tries to eat, and he tries to drink water, but his stomach recoils at each attempt, leaving a rotten taste in his throat. 

Time ticks on.

  
  


* * *

Fifty-Seven Days.

It’s almost two months before the sun finally rips through the clouds and Dean can breathe again. He’s awoken from a drug-induced slumber by the rattle of his new cell phone against the nightstand. He grabs at it clumsily and answers without looking at the caller ID.

“What?” he snaps, mouth dry.

“Dean.” The voice is calm, toneless. 

“Jody?” Dean sits up, back aching, and he rubs at his eyes until colored splotches fill his vision. 

“He’s alive,” Jody says. “He’s been found.”

Time stops. Dean’s tongue won’t move in his mouth. All he manages to make is a strangled, unintelligible gibberish, like an infant.    
  


“He’s being transported to a hospital in Kansas City, Missouri. Meet me at the station ASAP.” Jody takes a shaky breath. “Castiel’s alive.” 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My Tumblr](https://castielsdisciple.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [captainhaterade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhaterade)

( _If you are not reading this work on www.archiveofourown.com, it is stolen and is being shared without my consent.)_

Dean doesn’t remember the drive to the police station. One moment, he is in his house, the phone still clutched in his hand, Jody’s voice ringing through his skull—the next, he’s back in that cold, hard, steel chair in the interrogation room with Jody right in front of him. Everything seems to move in a blur, like he’s trapped in a dream. 

Dean blinks. Swallows. There is still a flurry of activity happening behind him, through the walls and doors. 

“He really okay?” Dean finally asks in a whisper, terrified to rupture the heavy silence. This has to be a dream, right? He’s waited so long to hear Jody say those words. He was beginning to expect they’d never come, not in reality. He’s afraid to pinch himself. Afraid he’s going to wake up alone in his bed, the empty silence of the house mocking him. 

Jody sits on the table and crosses her legs. She frowns. “He’s alive,” she says noncommittally. Dean’s leg shakes and rocks the table. He exhales and breathes for what feels like the first time since this nightmare all began. A weight is lifted off his shoulders. Atlas is free of his burdens. 

“What’re we doing here then? Shouldn’t we be headed that way?” He doesn’t want to be away from Cas a second longer than necessary. It’s already been a lifetime since they saw each other. 

“Henrickson’s arranging a car. KCPD is still investigating the scene, but by the time we get there, we should know more.” Then, Jody smiles shyly. She reaches across the table and grabs Dean’s hand, squeezing it. “We’ll have him home in no time.”

Home. It sounds like a foregin word. Home hasn’t been home in almost sixty days. It’s just been an empty, lonely box, one he’s dreaded entering and exiting. His life shattered within moments just two months ago; suddenly and unexpectedly. Now, just as suddenly and just as unexpectedly, the pieces are finally starting to repair. Maybe life can resume. 

Cas is coming home. 

No one knows what sort of condition Cas is in, but Dean supposes it’s probably not because they are hiding information from him. They probably actually don’t know. Everything is moving too fast to keep organized. Not everyone seems to have the initial straight story straight, either. All Jody has divulged—after Dean arrived at the station, not over the phone—was that at around three in the afternoon, Cas knocked on a woman’s door, asking calmly and politely for help. An ambulance was called and Cas was en route to the hospital when the KCPD contacted Jody’s office. 

Sam comes down to the station, haggard but cheerful. Dean can’t manage conversation, but Sam’s presence beside him is comforting and soothing. Fifteen minutes later, Dean, Sam, and Henrickson are in a car headed for Kansas City. It’s only a forty minute drive. Barely a blink of an eye. A forty minute drive is only a milk run, really. But this time it seems to take forever. Each mile is eternal. Each second lasts minutes. The road stretches on, endless, forever. Farther than his eye can see. 

His knee bounces. 

What happens now? This whole ordeal, his mind has been occupied with nothing but a barrage of _bring Cas home, bring Cas home, bring Cas home_. Now that it’s within his grasp, Dean doesn’t know what he’s going to do. How will Cas be? How do they move on with their lives from here? How different are their lives going to be now? 

The sun is beginning to set by the time they pull into the hospital parking lot. Seven p.m. Within four hours, Cas is free, safe, and about to be reunited with his family.

Dean’s head spins if he thinks about it too much. How fickle life is; how much can change at the drop of a hat, for good and for bad. Henrickson parks. Then, for the first time in the entire trip, he looks back at Dean. 

“We don’t know a whole lot right now,” he says, professional and matter of fact. “We don’t know anything about his physical condition, much less his mental state. It is vital we tread cautiously. And it is vital that when we do see him, you do not show your own hurt. We can only imagine what he’s endured during these last two months, based on Black’s history. You have to remain calm and not upset him. Understood?”

“Understood,” Sam says, but Dean can only manage a nod. 

They walk into the hospital and it looks like a normal hospital. Nurses walk around with clipboards, patients sit in waiting rooms. Soft, instrumental music plays over the intercoms. It’s all incredibly mundane. The halls are packed with flu-stricken children and elderly people with oxygen masks and soccer moms waiting to get refills on their Prozac prescriptions. It betrays the scope of the situation, Dean thinks. Cas is somewhere here, and he is none of these people with ordinary ailments. 

Henrickson texts on his phone, and within thirty seconds, he’s leading them up a stairwell. “Fewer cameras,” he explains, as they make the journey up three flights, Dean’s heart slamming against his ribs with each step. 

They arrive at the inpatient suites, and Henrickson marches to the nurses’ station, produces his FBI badge, and then he’s pointing Dean and Sam to a door. 

The note outside labels the patient as Doe, John. Henrickson is busy explaining that it’s for safety reasons, but Dean barely hears him.

This is it.

This is all that is between him and Cas. After months of knowing nothing, he now knows that Cas is on the other side of this door. He just has to open it. He’s terrified. He can’t make himself raise his arm and twist the handle. He can’t make himself knock. He stands there, stupefied, and doesn’t notice the doctor approaching them until she’s right beside Dean. 

“Relation to patient?” she asks, clipped. 

“Uh. . .” Dean’s brain buffers. “Spouse,” he finally manages, once Sam nudges him. He looks into her dark, serious eyes. Very similar to Cas’s. “Is he okay?” The question sounds stupid to his ears and he flinches.

Her name tag identifies her as Dr. Roberts. She sighs, the facade slipping. “We haven’t done a physical examination yet.”

“Why not?” Isn’t that standard protocol for emergency patients? Dean has to consciously hold himself back from yelling. 

“Because he won’t let anyone touch him. We suspect shock, and honestly, it’s not surprising, given what he’s endured. He screams blue bloody murder if you get within arms’ reach. But,” she puts a steady arm on his shoulder, “maybe knowing a familiar face will help calm him down.” 

Dean and Sam share a look. Sam’s expression is guarded, but Dean knows him well enough to recognize the concern.

“You should go first,” Sam says. “I’ll come in later.”

Dr. Roberts smiles softly. “We’ll be right here.”

Dean gulps. He raises his arm, feeling like Atlas with the effort. He twists the door. It creaks. “Cas?” he calls softly. Steps inside. 

The lights are off, the room dimly illuminated by the setting sun. Cas is on the bed, naked except for the thin hospital sheets covering him. Dean recalls Henrickson’s earlier lecture; he schools his face impassive as he takes in the sight of Castiel.

The very first thought Dean’s brain supplies him is _he’s so thin_ . The muscle definition is gone. Cas’s collarbone juts out against his skin, and his cheeks are hollowed, so much so that Dean can tell from feet away. He can see ribs, and his brain continues to be helpful, replaying that damn article: _the official cause of death for over half of Black’s victims was starvation_.

The next thing Dean notices is the bruising. It’s all over Cas’s arms and torso, and Dean can only imagine what’s being hidden underneath that thin, cold hospital sheet. Then there’s the hair, which is the longest Dean’s ever seen, curling past Cas’s earlobe.

It’s a horrendous sight. But the edge is taken off by the rise and fall of Cas’s chest.

Dean takes a step in and closes the door behind him quietly. “Cas?” Cas’s head turns towards him. Another step. “It’s me. Dean.”

“Dean?” Cas’s voice is quiet. Barely audible.

“Yeah. Can I come closer?”

Cas’s head turns further. He’s facing Dean, but not making eye contact. His eyes are red and puffy with illness. “ _Dean_.” 

That’s all the invitation Dean needs. He erases the distance between them. Cas reaches out and when he takes Dean’s arm, he pulls Dean down onto the bed and latches on. Dean sits, unsure of what to say at first, words clogged in his throat. Cas trembles and buries his face in the spot between Dean’s neck and shoulder. He starts to sob.

Dean’s frozen like that, as time momentarily stops. Ten years of marriage, twelve years of knowing each other, Dean’s never seen Cas cry. Close, several times, but tears never managed to slip past Cas’s eyelids and down his cheeks. 

Dean’s hand comes up and curls into the long hair. “You’re safe now,” he mutters softly, rocking slightly. “It’s okay.” Dean’s hand brushes against a hidden bump on the back of Cas’s head; Cas flinches, but then relaxes back into Dean. Dean’s hand is still by the invisible wound, throat tight. 

He should be angry. He should be infuriated. Screaming at the sky, at God, for letting this happen. 

All that he is, though, is grateful that Cas is alive, that Cas is here; his heat against Dean’s skin, his breath close to Dean’s ear. Alive, alive. Anything else, they can work through. They’ll figure it out. They can fix it. Death can’t be fixed, but they can fix this, so Dean isn’t angry, and he’s not infuriated, and he’s not pissed off. He’s relieved. 

He doesn’t know how long they sit like that, Cas sobbing, and Dean brushing his hair, careful to avoid that wounded spot. It’s long enough that the sun finally sets, enclosing them in darkness. Long enough that Cas cries himself out, sighs, and deflates against Dean. 

Eventually, Cas sits up, eyes red and puffy. He reaches up and puts his hand against Dean’s cheek. “Is it really you?”

Dean nods. “Really me.”

Cas still isn’t looking at him, not in the eye. 

“You have to tell us what’s wrong so we can help you. Sammy’s out there, the doctor’s right there. You ready to let us help you?”

“I can’t see.”

It’s sudden and acts like a stab to Dean’s heart. “At all?”

Cas shakes his head. “I see colors, but not shapes. It’s all a blur.” 

He remembers what Henrickson says. Keeps his voice calm and flat. “Anything else?”

“Everything hurts.”

“We’ll get that fixed.”

Cas squeezes Dean’s hand. “How long was I gone?”

The breath leaves Dean’s body. “Too damn long.”

  
  
  
  


* * *

It’s two in the morning by the time the physical examination and other tests are performed, and Cas is finally left alone by the doctors. Henrickson is preparing to leave for a motel room, but he says he’ll be back in the morning for a statement. Cas sleeps fitfully on the hospital bed, dosed up to his eyeballs with antibiotics and pain medication. He’s dressed in a flimsy hospital gown now, but it makes him look more human. 

The radiologist had just left after going over the CT scan. Swelling in the brain, he diagnosed, from blunt force trauma to the head. It’s putting pressure on his optic nerve, and is the cause of Cas’s blurry vision. According to the opthamologist who also came in, once the swelling goes down, Cas’s vision should return to normal. All they can do is wait.

Dr. Roberts claimed the other injuries were superficial, but Dean isn’t sure how that could be true. Cas’s body is covered in bruises and cuts. Three fingers on his left hand are taped and splinted, broken. He’s down forty-two pounds and tested positive for a UTI. There are ligature marks around his wrists, ankles and throat, and track marks in the crooks of his elbows and insides of his thighs. He refused the rape exam. 

Dean watches Cas sleep, fingers twitching against the sheets. He jumps and almost yells when Sam startles him by patting him on the shoulders. 

“You should get some sleep,” Sam whispers. “I can keep an eye on him. He’s not going anywhere.”

Dean trusts Sam. Of course he trusts his brother. But there is an irrational fear that if he closes his eyes, if he sleeps even for a second, Cas won’t be there when he wakes. 

“I’m good,” Dean mutters, mouth feeling like it’s stuffed with cotton. Sam pulls the second chair close and sits down in it, staring at Cas. 

“Alastair Black is dead.”

Dean glances at Sam out of the corner of his eye. Sam’s chewing on his cuticle. “Yeah?”

“Henrickson told me before he left. KCPD have finished surveying the scene. Two stab wounds, one to the back of the neck, the other right through the heart.”

Dean looks back at Cas. Watches the rise and fall of his chest. 

“Good,” he says simply. “He tell you anything else?”

Sam shakes his head. “He said we should wait for Cas’s statement first. Didn’t want to divulge anything else. But Henrickson was spooked. I could see it in his eyes.”

Cas’s eyes flutter underneath his eyelids. 

“I hope it hurt,” Dean says. 

* * *

  
  
  


Cas barely eats, despite the fact Dean knows he’s starving. Cas struggles with spooning Jell-O with his taped hands. Dean offers to help him once, but the icy glare Cas shoots his direction shuts him up. 

They watch cartoons for pre-schoolers and don’t speak much, until Henrickson appears after one p.m., with Jody behind him.

“Hey, kiddo,” Jody says, smiling softly. “Can I hug you?” 

Cas nods. It’s a bit precarious, as Jody has to be careful of the wires and IV line, and Cas is awkward under her touch. But he says, “Jody,” relaxed, and his eyes briefly close, savoring the contact.

“Are you ready to give your statement?” She’s calm and motherly as she distangles, but Cas still goes rigid, almost snapping the plastic spoon in half. 

“We can wait, can’t we?” Dean asks, but Cas quickly speaks over him.

“No,” he says to Dean. “I don’t want to drag it out. This has to be done. Let’s get it done. But I want Dean here.”

“Not a problem.”

Within five minutes, Jody and Henrickson are sitting in front of Cas, notepads in their laps, a tape recorder on the small dinner table between them. Dean sits beside Cas, holding Cas’s good hand. 

“Please state your name for the record,” Henrickson begins.

“Castiel Winchester.”

“Tell us in your own words what happened.”

Cas opens his mouth, pauses. Then he opens it again. “I killed Alastair Black.”

Everyone turns to look at him. That wasn’t what they were expecting. 

Cas continues. “He was. . . he was . . . cutting me. With an ice pick.” Something about the way Cas says the words lets Dean know it’s not the complete truth. “I pretended to be dead. He put the ice pick down. I heard where it was. Right within my reach. You know how these things go; they always get sloppy, eventually. He turned his back to me. I grabbed the ice pick and I—”

Cas mimes stabbing the table in front of him. “Once in his neck. Then again, right in his heart. I got his keys and got out. I killed him.” The room is silent, except for the beeping of the machines. The heart monitor is loudest, and Dean clings to that sound; proof that Cas is alive. 

Cas sticks his hands out. 

“What are you doing?” Dean asks. 

“Go on,” Cas says. “Arrest me.”

“Castiel,” Jody chastises. 

“What are you waiting for? I killed a man. I broke man’s law and God’s. I won’t fight you. Arrest me.”

“We’re going to pause the interview here,” Henrickson says, then he hits a button on the recorder. “You know you’re not under arrest. D.A.’s not even going to waste his time looking over the paperwork. It was self-defense, clear as day, Castiel. And, for the record, you didn’t kill a man. Alastair Black was a monster. He needed to be stopped. We all know it was only a matter of time before he got bored of you and hurt someone else. You stopped that from happening. You saved lives.”

Cas shook his head, eyes watery. He covered his head with his hands. “No, no, no. You don’t get it. I killed him. Every day, I wanted him dead, and then I did it, I killed him. There’s murder in my heart. I’m no different than him.”

“Bullshit,” Dean says, squeezing Cas’s hand, and ignoring the disapproving look Jody shoots his way. “You’re nothing like that fucker—”

“Dean,” Jody snaps. Dean shuts his mouth. Cas is clearly distressed, twitching, lungs making a weird, huffing sound. “Castiel, I’m sorry. This is too soon. We’ll let you rest some more. We can finish this back in Lawrence.” 

“I need—”

“To rest. And recover. To be with your family. The police reports can wait. We just want you to be well.”

Another argument is on the tip of Cas’s tongue, but Jody shushes him, and then she and Henrickson leave. Dean goes to the door with them and waits just at the threshold. 

“Take care of him,” Jody says. “He’s going to need a lot of help.”

Dean nods. “Whatever he needs, I’m there. You know that.”

Jody smiles. She pats Dean’s cheek. “I know. You’re good for him.” She kisses Dean’s cheek. “Call us soon as he’s discharged, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Jody huffs, turns, and walks away. Henrickson stays for moment longer to shake Dean’s hand. 

“Call me,” he whispers, “soon as things settle down just a bit.” It isn’t until he’s following Jody down the hallway that Dean realizes Henrickson handed Dean his business card. He stares at it before pocketing it and then he returns to Cas’s side, and tries to calm him down with more Jell-O and cartoons.

* * *

The DTs start that night. 

It’s awful to see Cas, already in such pain, suffer even more. He shakes so hard the bed creaks and he sweats straight through the sheets, but still goosebumps mar his skin. He breathes through his mouth and mumbles incoherently. 

Dean’s ass is numb from sitting. In the last several hours he’s only gotten up to refill the ice bucket and get more towels to press across Cas’s forehead. He feeds Cas ice chips like a baby bird and tries to ignore Cas’s occasionally muttering of “Alastair, stop.”

It’s past midnight when Sam enters, arms crossed over his chest. “You need a break. Go to the motel.”

“I can’t leave him like this.” Dean’s voice cracks. He’s on the precipice of crying. 

“I’ve got him. I’ll watch him.”

Dean shakes his head. “I have to take care of him.”

“He’s my family, too. You can’t take care of him if you keel over from exhaustion.”

Logically, Dean knows Sam is right. But how can he extract himself from this chair, drive to the motel, and sleep miles away when Cas is suffering? Even the idea of leaving Cas’s side makes his heart seize in his chest. He hates doing it even just for two minutes to pee.

Dean’s nose starts to run. He wipes it on the elbow of his sleeve and slips more ice cubes past Cas’s lips. 

“God,” Cas mutters, barely audible, “please God just kill me, just _end it_.”

Dean looks at Sam, and when he blinks, tears fall down his face. “Isn’t there anything they can do?”

Sam sighs and uncrosses his arms. “I asked about methadone. Dr. Roberts says it won’t help, since it’s an opioid. He’ll just have to suffer through it.”

Dean looks back at Cas; pale, clammy, miserable Cas. “And how long will that take?”

“She says anywhere from three to five days.”

Dean looks at the ceiling and more hot, salty tears run down his face. Five days of this? How is Cas supposed to survive five days of this? How is Dean? Dean’s not sure which is worse: witnessing Cas suffer and not being able to do anything about it, or when Cas was missing and he knew nothing. Having Cas’s pain thrust in his face certainly is different than the horrors Dean’s mind played out. 

Cas’s teeth chatter. 

“Go,” Sam says. “Eat. Get some sleep. He’ll still be here in the morning. If you make yourself sick looking after him, he’s gonna be pissed.”

Dean can’t help it. He snorts and chuckles, but there’s no humor. He wipes his eyes. When he stands, his knees are wobbly as blood flows downwards towards his toes. He hands the towel to Sam.

“He likes it on his neck.”

“I can do that.” Sam offers a weak grin, but Dean can’t return it. Sam fishes the motel keycard out of his pocket and trades with Dean for the towel. Sam sits in the seat and Dean stands and watches for a moment, until Sam glares at him and mouths “go.”

Dean awkwardly shuffles to the door. Before he closes it to leave, he hears Sam’s voice, low and placating. 

“I’m glad you’re home, Cas. We were really worried about you. Dean and I will take care of you. Everything will be better. I promise.”

Dean swallows a lump in his throat and closes the door. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hi!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/castielsdisciple)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd because I only got it finished this morning, but I want to share with you all! If you enjoy, please leave a comment! Thanks for all the support. <3

( _If you are not reading this work on www.archiveofourown.com_ , _it is posted without my permission and therefore stolen.)_

In the end, Dean only manages a few hours of sleep. He’s back at the hospital before sunrise; Cas is still mostly out of it, but he is calmer than he was several hours ago. Dean’s grateful for any respite Cas can get. Sam is still in the chair when Dean gets back, wiping the towel across Cas’s forehead. 

“Hey,” Sam says softly, stretching. There’s exhaustion in his voice. “Why’re you back so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Sam frowns, eyes darting between Cas and Dean. He sighs, deflating. “Yeah. I get that.”

Dean steps inside. “Anything new?”

Sam shakes his head and hides a yawn behind his hand. “No. They kept checking on him last night, temperature, blood pressure, that kind of stuff. It wasn’t until about an hour ago he went quiet like this. Think he wore himself out.” 

Dean watches Cas. He’s still trembling, but it seems less violent. The lines in his face aren’t as deep. He’s more relaxed. At least, as relaxed as he can be, given the circumstances. But Sam’s words from last night still ring in his head; that withdrawal can last from three to five days. They aren’t even over the hump. And when Dean thinks about it, his eyes are drawn to the bruises indicative of drug use. And thinking about that makes him think of the injuries he can’t see. Because he knows they’re there, hiding just below the surface. The air smells like blood. 

He thinks of Cas, pleading for Henrickson to arrest him. 

_I killed Alastair Black_.

But nothing more than that. And Dean knows it’s going to be awhile before anything else comes out. No one’s going to push Cas for info, not when he’s like this. Sick, still in shock. 

Dean’s just glad Cas is alive. He can take the punches as they come, as long as Cas is alive. Donna was right. Everything else is recoverable. For almost sixty days, Dean was certain the next time he saw Cas was going to be at the morgue, identifying the body. Whatever injuries will resurface throughout the next few days, weeks, months, year— Dean will deal with happily. 

Dean doesn’t realize minutes fly by as he stands there, watching Cas. The innocuous rise and fall of his chest is the most mesmerizing thing in the world now. Sam clears his throat and gets Dean’s attention.

“Balthazar should be here this afternoon.”

Dean’s throat tightens. He nods. 

“Aunt and Uncle?”

Sam shrugs. “Haven’t heard back from them yet. Not like that’s surprising though, right?”

Dean snorts. “They’re flakier than my breakfast.”

“Like you’ve ever eaten corn flakes in your life.”

Dean doesn’t rebuff him. 

Sam continues, “Eileen’s gonna come up here once she gets off work. She had the early shift, so she should be here around dinner time.”

“That’s great.” Cas and Eileen have a close relationship. Cas treats her like a little sister. It helped that they had an easy connection, thanks to Cas knowing ASL. These past two months were hard on her as well; Cas is essentially her brother too, like Dean, and he could see the stress lines on her face develop as time marched on. She was sorry she couldn’t have come earlier. 

It’s different than it was. When Cas was missing, Dean was overwhelmed with the nothing that surrounded him. Now it seems like there’s too much. Tests that need to be run, reports that need to be made, obnoxious older brothers to be dealt with. Not to mention taking Cas back home and trying to undo what’s been done. Go on with their lives. Somehow try to move past it. People manage it, somehow. They push past trauma. People caught in tragedies, witness the very worst of humankind. Somehow, they manage to collect the fragments of their lives and rebuild. 

They’ll manage it too. Somehow. They have to. 

The hours pass. Cas flotats in and out of consciousness. He doesn’t talk. He acknowledges Dean, or Sam, or any of the many doctors or nurses that swim in and out of the room with just a languid blink. His fever is steady, hovering continuously around the 102 mark, no matter how much ice Dean feeds him, or how many cooling pads the nurses stick between his legs. The pads have to be changed out every hour anyway; they become quickly stained with blood. Dean averts his gaze each time. 

By three in the afternoon, he’s a bit more active. He sits up in bed and manages to eat a few spoonfuls of broth with much more dexterity than he displayed earlier. Doctors are always in the room, drawing blood, or taking his temperature, or blood pressure, or heart rate, or shining a light in his eyes, or _something_. It never ends, and Dean’s temper simmers each time he sees the small flinch in Cas’s eyes. The only good thing is the realization that Cas’s sight is coming back. It’s still blurry, but shapes are starting to take forth. After the fifth time they come in and insist on taking more blood for more tests, Dean’s about to tell them to piss off--but then Balthazar shows up. 

“Cassie! Oh my god, Cassie!”

He’s not dissuaded by the wires and tubing. He is Balthazar--loud, boisterous, obnoxious. Ever the life of a party, even at funerals and bedsides. He latches himself onto Cas like a marsupial, holding him tight. “I can’t believe it,” Balthazar sobs, “I thought I’d never see you again!”

“Balthazar,” Cas says, teeth still chattering. 

“It’s all okay now,” Balthazar shushes. “It’ll be okay.” Balthazar brushes Cas’s hair out of his eyes, and hits the bump. Cas flinches, but Balthazar doesn’t seem to notice. He holds like Cas is his life preserver; like he’s lost in the middle of the ocean, and Cas is his only hope of survival. “I’d given up hope. I thought—” Balthazar swallows and begins to shake. Sam steps forward a bit, stuttering, and Balthazar bats him away, holding onto Cas even tighter. 

“Let him breath some,” Sam says, but Balthazar ignores him.

“I’m okay, Balthazar,” Cas says, voice muffled by Balthazar’s limbs. Balthazar is openly crying now, snotty and red-faced like a child. 

“Don’t say that!” Balthazar chides. “You’re not! I know what man--what that monster--did. You don’t have to pretend. I’m here for you, Cassie, and I’m not going anywhere.”

_Great_ , Dean thinks and rolls his eyes. He needs a drink. Or several. The cluster headache begins behind his eyes, pounding, pounding, pounding. 

“Where are you hurt?” Balthazar continues, probing. His fingers begin touching everywhere. Cas’s face, arms, torso, legs, like he’s searching for something, and then—

“Stop touching me!”

Cas tries to pull away from Balthazar, but he’s trapped by the bedding, by the wires, and IVs, and his own fatigue. He can’t do more than roll a few centimeters, and even then, he’s still pressed up against Balthazar, like a trapped animal. 

“Get off me, get off me, get OFF!”

Sam has to physically pull Balthazar off Cas, because like a moron he just sits there frozen, watching Cas freak.

Cas’s heart rate goes up. He’s breathing heavier, chest rising and falling with great effort, but the breaths he’s taking are shallow. His skin is gray and sweaty.

“Dean,” Sam breathes.

“What do we do?”

“He’s having a panic attack. Calm him down!”

Dean had no clue how to even begin this feat. What does he do? What does he not do? Cas clearly doesn’t want to be touched right now--would he be okay with Dean getting closer? Sam is looking at Dean to do something and Balthazar is about ready to charge like a bull back into action, and knowing him, he’ll make things even worse.

“Cas?” Dean says quietly. He debates for a long second, then steps forward. “Cas, it’s okay. Breathe. Inhale, hold it. C’mon, you need to breathe.”

Cas is almost gasping for air now, like a suffocating fish, and he’s still shaking. 

“I’m not going to touch you,” Dean says calmly, even though on the inside he is anything but calm. “Look at me, please.”

It takes a few moments, but Cas cranes his neck at an uncomfortable angle to meet Dean’s gaze. 

“Inhale,” Dean demonstrates, “and hold it.”

Cas tries, fails. Tries again, fails. The third time he manages to catch his breath enough to hold it, for just a few seconds before the air escapes in a wheeze.

“That’s good. Try again. Inhale, hold.” 

Cas follows Dean’s directions, eyes wild and teary. 

“Exhale.”

After several more iterations of the exercise, Cas calms down. His heart rate goes down. Dean feels like his own breathing gets better. The air in the room becomes less tense. 

But now Cas is aware of the three pairs of eyes locked onto him, full attention. He swallows uncomfortably and then turns back away, facing the far wall. He grips onto the safety bars of his bed and squeezes, bruised veins popping out against his skin. 

“Cas?”

“I’m okay,” Cas gasps. His voice sounds raw, like he’s been screaming for years. “I’m _okay_.”

“The hell you are,” Balthazar says, stepping forward.

“Balthazar,” Sam says warningly. 

“You don’t need this brave front, Cassie. Stop trying to hide behind it. That man tortured you”--

another step closer— “He pumped you full of drugs, he beat you”--another step and he stands beside Dean’s shoulder— “starved you, and he raped you!” Cas visibly flinches. Dean wants to reach out, touch him, but he knows it would not be welcome. All he can do is stand there, uselessly, just like he’s been for the entirety of this ordeal, ever since he drove to Cas’s office that first day. Balthazar, clueless, continues, “You don’t have to pretend like everything is okay, because it’s not Cassie, it’s really, truly not, and I know you’re tough and you’re strong and you’re grown, but you’re still my baby brother, and it’s okay to let me in. He _raped_ you—”

Cas grabs the nearest object--the plastic pitcher of water--and he throws it. It whizzes by Dean and Balthazar and Sam dodges to avoid it. It slams against the wall, spilling its contents everywhere, and falling to the ground with a pathetic _clunk_.

“Get out,” Cas growls. “Everybody get out.”

“Cas,” Dean begins.

“I said _get out_!” It’s visceral, pained; the cry of a wounded animal. Dean flinches like he’s been physically struck. And in a way, he has. His heart clenches in his chest and he takes a tentative step back. Sam puts his hands on Dean’s shoulder and pulls gently. 

_No_ , Dean wants to say. It’s lodged in his throat, choking him. _We can’t leave him_. But Sam whispers in Dean’s ear, “Let’s give him space,” and Dean is following, out the door, Balthazar trailing behind them sulkily. 

Once the door closes, Dean turns.

“Nice going, asshat!”

“Me?” Balthazar has the gall to look offended. 

“You fucking triggered him or some shit. Can’t you read a room?”

“I’m the bad guy for wanting to look after my brother—”

“You’re the bad guy for not being able to keep your trap shut—”

“You’re just going to let him sit there and not say anything—”

“It hasn’t even been three days yet, Jesus Christ, let him, let him breath for a fucking second—”

“So it can be forgotten? Never talked about? You do know my brother, right? He won’t say a word unless you yank them out of his throat—”

“Even I know you can’t force this—”

“There’s a shocker, right there, dropout.”

“The fuck did you say—”

“Hey, hey, HEY!” Sam shoves himself in-between them, and pushes them apart with his arms, panting. “Shut up!”

It’s only then that Dea notices the nurses looking at them fearfully. 

“This is a hospital,” Sam snaps. “There are sick people trying to sleep. Both of you need to put your rulers away and get. It. Together. For Cas.”

Sam puts his arms down, still huffing. He turns to Balthazar. “If you have even a shred of decency in your veins, you will let Cas come to you when he is ready. The hell do you think you’re doing? He’s still in withdrawal, for God’s sake. Like he has the mental stamina right now to put up with your bullshit.” 

“He’s my brother—”

“Then act like it. You’ve been here barely five minutes and are already stressing him out. Take a walk. Get some coffee.”

Balthazar swallows. “You’re really just going to leave him alone?”

“It’s what he asked for.” Sam waits. When Balthazar doesn’t move, Sam shoos him away with his hands. “Go!”

Like an angry toddler, Balthazar storms off, muttering and cursing under his breath. 

“Let’s go, Dean.”

“Seriously?”

“You heard what I said, right? It applies to you too. Let’s just give Cas his space. We can grab something to eat.”

Dean shakes his head. “I’m not hungry,” and it’s the truth. “I guess I’ll just uh. . . go for a walk.”

Sam appraises Dean, then nods. “Okay. I’ll wait around and I’ll be here when he’s calmed down.”

“Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam smiles sadly. “He’s my family too.”

Dean walks off, the adrenaline from his fight with Balthazar dying down. He turns the corner towards the elevators and digs into his pocket for his phone, and the business card Henrickson slipped him earlier. Dean stares at it for a moment, like it’s a predator about to strike. The numbers are calling out to him. 

Dean dials the number. It rings and rings and rings.

“Henrickson,” comes the clipped reply.

“This is Dean Winchester.”

There’s a pause. 

“Yes, Dean?”

Dean swallows air. It burns his lungs. “You got a few minutes?”

* * *

  
  
  


Henrickson tells Dean to meet him at the KCPD. It’s where he’s set up his base camp for the time being. 

When Dean walks into the room, Henrickson stands up from his desk and shakes his hand.

“How’s he doing?” Henrickson asks, leading Dean back to the table.

Dean shrugs and picks at a hangnail. “He’s alive. That’s more than I expected, so I’ll take anything. I’ll take him, in any form.”

Henrickson smiles. “But?”

It’s hard to get the words out. They fight him. And he feels terrible saying it. “But I want to know. He won’t tell me and he’ll insist he’s fine. He’s that kind of person. He could be bleeding from the eyes and he’ll still go to work and power through the day. So he won’t tell me what’s going on, or how he’s really feeling. Or what happened.”

Henrickson continues to stare. It’s not judgemental; just an honest gaze into Dean’s soul. Maybe his psyche. Henrickson pushes a manilla folder towards Dean. It lays there, danger behind an innocent guise. 

“You don’t have to look,” Henrickson says. “But I understand the curiosity. It’s not a good sight. But I’ll answer any questions you have to the best of my ability.” 

For a brief moment, Dean loses control of his body. He opens the folder. 

The first picture is of a shed. It’s got peeling, blue paint and a rusted red roof. It looks slightly bigger than the average tool shed, maybe ten feet by ten feet. There are chains on the door, hanging limply from the handles. The grass is a dying, yellow color. 

“This shed was found approximately one hundred feet from the house Castiel went to for help.” 

It’s so innocuous looking. A regular shed anyone could have in their backyard, full of gardening tools, Christmas decorations. It hardly bodes the appearance of Hell. 

Dean flips to the next photo. It’s taken from inside the doorway. The only light comes from the flash of the camera, casting dark shadows on the inside. There’s a sink, a toilet, an old yoga mat on the floor, and against the right wall, and an examination table that would be found in a doctor’s office. In the other corner is a lump of something Dean can’t quite make out; it’s large and cumbersome. 

Dean is aware that Henrickson is watching him closely, waiting for a reaction. He tries to ignore the burning gaze and instead focus on the photos. He tries to imagine himself being locked in this shed for days on end. No windows. No sunlight. No company. No entertainment, to distract from the reality of the situation. Cas had nothing.

The next picture is of the examination table. Dean tastes bile in his throat, stomach churning with nausea. It has stirrups and cuffs where one’s hands would rest. Next to the table is a small, metal dentist tray cluttered with instruments of torture. Pocket knives and needles and vibrators and several thin, long, metal rods, which have tiny pinpricks of blood on them. 

Dean imagines Cas, chained to that table, knowing that struggling and crying for help were futile. His chest tightens, and he can feel his own panic attack coming forward. 

He turns the photo. It’s of Alastair Black’s corpse on the ground. He’s face up, eyes open, but lifeless, and very pale. Sticking out of his chest is a knife, buried down to the hilt. There is blood underneath his head, thick like maple syrup. 

“Two stab wounds,” Henrickson says. Dean flinches at the break in silence. “First one was to the back of the neck--M.E. says it severed his spinal cord. The one to the heart killed him instantly.”

Dean’s disappointed. He wants the bastard to suffer; to suffer like he made all those people suffer, like he made Cas suffer, like he made the families suffer. How many lives did he ruin? How many people did he inadvertently touch, when he thought he could just take people and do whatever he wanted? All those people--they had families, friends, coworkers, people that would miss them, people that cherished them. And they died slowly. And in pain. 

Dean swallows. “What else do you know?”

Henrickson pauses. Watches closely. It makes Dean fidget. “The shed was in the backyard of a house that belonged to a woman named Dolores Uriel. Mrs. Uriel passed away two years ago, and the house is now in possession of her grandson, a Mr. Robert Uriel.”

Henrickson flips through another folder, pulls out another photo, and pushes it towards Dean. Dean tentatively takes it and his blood turns to ice. 

“This is another guy Cas took out, right?” He looks vaguely familiar. He has the same beady eyes as most of the people Cas fights to put behind bars.

“Uriel was prosecuted for gang related violence about eight years ago. He served his time at the Topeka facility, was released early due to overpopulation, and moved back to Kansas City. He lived with his grandmother until her passing.”

Another man. Another tormentor. Were there more? Why didn’t Cas say anything earlier? 

“Where is he?” Dean asks. 

“We don’t know. We’re looking.”

“Like how you were looking for Cas? For Alastair?” It comes out vitriolic. Dean’s face flushes in anger. Everyday for months it was _we’re doing the best we can, we’re utilizing all our resources, we won’t rest until they’re found_ \--and they never did. They didn’t find Cas. Cas saved himself. Like always. 

“We have leads,” Henrickson says, unperturbed by the outburst. “His credit card was last used the evening Castiel escaped, at a gas station down I-35. Uriel has a sister in Texas. We think he may be heading there.” 

At least there’s _something_ , Dean thinks grumpily. There is some kind of direction, rather than grasping at nothing, and sitting on hands, leaving Cas to take matters into his own hands, save himself.

It’s a trait Dean’s always admired and envied: Cas’s tenacity. No matter what knocks him down, or how many times, Cas gets up, brushes himself off, and continues to fight, spitting and kicking. Cas has always been good at not letting people hurt him. 

But even Jesus wept. 

“So, what do we do?”

Henrickson huffs and shakes his head. “ _You_ are going to go home and take care of that man. My gang and I will handle this.”

There are more retorts, more anger, but it shrivels up and dies on the route from Dean’s brain to his tongue. All the dead ends, the false hope, the nothing--it doesn’t matter anymore. Cas is back and alive and he needs Dean right now, even if he won’t admit it.

“Okay,” Dean mutters. Henrickson smiles at him.

“Well? Go. Be with him.”

Dean doesn’t need any convincing. 

* * *

By the time he gets back to the hospital, the sun has set. The sky is covered with stars. The air is cool and the night is quiet; it should be peaceful. 

Balthazar is nowhere to be seen, and Dean knows it’s for the best right now. Balthazar’s always made things worse with his big mouth. Sam and Eileen are curled together, uncomfortably by the looks of it, in the lounge chair in Cas’s room.

Cas is awake, staring dully at the wall.

Dean shuts the door as softly as he can, and Cas’s eyes track the sound.

“Dean? You’re back.”

“Hey,” Dean whispers. “Can’t sleep?” There are other questions he wants to ask. _Why didn’t you tell us about Uriel? What did they do to you? Are there any others? How many times?_ Dean doesn’t ask. He doesn’t know how to ask. And with the outburst Cas had earlier, he doesn’t want to press any issues. Doesn’t want to upset Cas, interfere with recovery. He’s pretty sure that’s what one is supposed to do in these situations--let the person come to you with their story. Don’t pressure someone into retelling their abuse. 

Dean doesn’t ask. Cas starts to sit up and begins fiddling with the wires and tubing. 

“What’re you doing? Cas, stop.”

“Take me to the chapel.” Cas the circulation cuffs off his legs and his hands go to the oxygen cannula around his ears. 

“Woah, woah, cowboy, hang on a sec—”

“I need to go _now._ ” He begins to unscrew the IV port from the bag hanging above his head. 

“Okay, okay, but shouldn’t a doctor be the one—”

“They’re going to keep me here and I--I don’t want that, I want to get up, get out, see something, and no one is going to stop me.” _Not even you_ , Cas’s eyes say, with that stone cold, impassive gaze that’s made its home inside the courthouse. “I won’t be chained to anything ever again, not by anyone. Not even you.”

It’s like a knife through Dean’s heart, twisting. The pictures. The table. All those instruments, some of which he has no idea what they are or how they were used. 

There are only two ways this is going to go. Cas goes with Dean’s help, or he goes without Dean’s help. There’s no stopping him once he’s got an idea in his brain. 

“Be careful,” Dean says, stepping forward. He helps unloop everything, putting it neatly out of the way. Then he takes the heart rate monitor off Cas’s finger, and sticks it on Sam’s. The machine continues to beep, without interruption.

Cas is unsteady when he gets to his eet. His knees wobble and he’s shivering. Dean takes off his outer jacket and helps Cas stick his arms through it. He immediately looks better in some normal clothes. He looks more human. 

“You good to walk?”

“I’m fine,” Cas snaps. He sighs, hand hovering in the air. “Just--help?” 

Dean takes Cas’s arm. Cas leans most of his weight on Dean and together they quietly shuffle out of the room. He relishes in the solid presence, the warmth, the heartbeat. There is no one at the nurses’ station and Dean sighs in relief. There’s no one to stop them. 

The chapel is in the basement. They walk slowly to the elevator. Cas is panting by the time they get there, but Dean doesn’t press the issue. He knows what Cas’s answer will be if he says anything. The quiet in the elevator is suffocating and awkward. But Dean doesn’t know what to say.

The chapel is empty. It’s quaint and humble, with only a handful of pews, a small altar and podium, and a modest crucifix on the far wall. 

Cas pulls away from Dean’s grip and limps to the altar. He gets to his knees, folds his hands, and closes his eyes, muttering a prayer. 

Dean watches from the doorway, heart in his throat. 

He’s never understood Cas’s faith. There is so much evil in the world, and Cas especially sees it everyday— how can Cas believe in a higher power that allows innocent people to suffer so horrifically? Dean’s dad fought in Vietnam, came back with PTSD, and turned to drinking to cope. It took years for him to get the help he needed, and it was a long road; a road he’s still on, with weekly AA meetings. Cas’s own dad ditched him when he was a kid. There’s war, pestilence, famine waging all across the world, against people that have never hurt another in their life. What kind of God allows that?

What kind of God allows a man to kidnap, torture, and kill dozens of people?

What kind of God allows someone to do that to _Cas_? 

Cas has tried to explain, but Dean just can’t accept it. Now, more than ever, he can’t accept it. He can’t understand why Cas wants to be here. Why Cas is on his knees, praying. God didn’t help Cas. God didn’t save Cas. Why is Cas here, like he’s the one who owes a debt?

Either there is a God, or there isn’t. And if there is a God, Dean decides he’s a righteous dick. 

Cas stops whispering. He cranes his neck up to look at the crucifix. The soft lamplight refracts in the tear tracks on Cas’s face.

Dean has to scrap up every ounce of courage in his atoms to step inside the chapel. He kneels next to Cas and together they sit there, wordlessly. 

“I’m a killer,” Cas says eventually. 

“You’re not.”

“I am. I killed him.” Cas stares at his hands, turning them over and back, again and again. “There’s murder in my heart.”

“Stop. You’re not— you’re a hero.”

Cas scoffs bitterly. 

“He can’t hurt anyone else, ever again. What were you supposed to do? Sit there, let him hurt you? Let him hurt others?”

“No one has a right to assign death but God. I took a man’s life, Dean. I violated God’s most sacred law. That can’t be excused.”

There’s more arguments, but they all wither and Dean lets it go. There’s no point in arguing about it, not right now, not when Cas is still ill. Cas is still shaking, still sweaty. He doesn’t have the energy to argue with Dean. Dean can’t push him.

“All I care about is that you’re okay,” Dean says. 

He knows the truth. If Cas hadn’t killed Alastair, Alastair would have killed him. He doesn’t know how he can make Cas understand that. 

All Dean can do is sit there and wait. Cas goes back to his prayer. This close, Dean can hear the words more clearly. He almost starts crying again.

Cas is praying for forgiveness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My Tumblr](https://castielsdisciple.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still technically Sunday! (At least where I live :P ) Sorry for the delay--I was bad this week and got the chapter to my beta late.
> 
> Give all the thanks to [jscribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jscribbles/pseuds/jscribbles) for beta-ing this round!

( _If you are not reading this work on www.archiveofourown.com, it has been stolen and is being posted without my permission.)_

After two more long, grueling days, they finally get to go home. Cas’s sight is mostly back, and the worst of the symptoms have abated. He moves with heavy fatigue in his muscles, pain in the lines of his face, and a general sense of melancholy, but they’re going home. 

It’s another fight, at first. Balthazar insists on bringing Cas back to his house, all the way in Santa Monica. There’s talks of plane tickets, of suitcases, of meetings with Naomi and Zachariah. It pisses Dean off that Balthazar just assumes he gets to take Cas to the other side of the country, and it pisses Dean off that Balthazar acts like Dean’s being the callous one in this whole ordeal. Like always, Balthazar just inserts himself into the situation, acting like he knows what’s best for Cas. It isn’t until Dr. Roberts gets involved, insisting that no, Castiel is not up to traveling such a long way, and that yes, it’s best for his recovery to be in his own home, where he’s comfortable and familiar, that Balthazar unhappily relents. He pouts in the corner the entire time, like a spoiled child in a time-out. 

He still gives Dean the stink eye the entire time as Cas goes through the discharge papers, squinting violently at the small text. Dean reads aloud most of it. Cas’s signature is shaky and unneat. 

It’s been almost five days. Five long, exhausting days, and now nothing sounds better in the entire world than going home and curling up with Cas in their bed, in their house. Cas gets dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt Sam picked up from the local Wal-Mart. It’s incredible how much healthier Cas looks, just in normal clothes. There’s still a sickness in his face, and he’s still too thin--the clothes hang awkwardly off his limbs. But he looks more human, more alive. Balthazar hovers, and no matter how many times Cas tries to shake him off, he waits, hands outstretched, just outside of Cas’s bubble.

As they turn in the last of the paperwork to the nurses’ station, and as they go over recovery care with Dr. Roberts once more--plenty of rest, fluids, calories, and antibiotics--Dean offers Cas a smile. It goes unreturned. Dr. Roberts gives Dean the name and number of a counselor in Lawrence. Dean thanks her for her time and help. They ride the elevator down to the parking lot, where Jody waits at the loading station. It’s decided that Balthazar and Sam will ride in Balthazar’s rental, and Dean will ride with Cas in Jody’s squad car. Balthazar, for once, does not say anything, even though his face sours at the ideas. His fingers twitch at his side. Dean thinks the only thing stopping Balthazar from throwing Cas into his car is all the witnesses and cameras present. 

The drive is quiet and awkward. No one speaks. No one touches the radio. It’s just the sound of the engine and rubber on asphalt. The entire drive, Cas stares out the window, fingertips pressed against the glass. His neck is craned upwards, looking at the sky, the birds, the telephone poles, the people in the cars driving beside them. The sunlight shines on his skin. There’s a somber peace to it, one Dean is loathe to break. Inside this car, it’s like its own little world. Nothing can come in, nothing can get out. Inside this car, they’re safe from the evil of the outside. There’s no Alastair, no Uriel, no nosey neighbors, no late night confessionals. 

Which makes it all the worse when they finally get home to see that someone tagged their garage door. In ugly, red paint the word  _ Hypocrite  _ screams at them. The drips on the concrete indicate it is relatively fresh. Cas stares at it vacantly before turning and heading to the front door. 

“I’ll call it in,” Jody says. “Talk to your neighbors. That should get us a timeframe, at least.”

Dean sighs. “You’ve already done so much, Jody.”

“And I’ll do even more, if that’s what we need.” She looks to where Cas stands, waiting by the door. “For now, you two need your rest.” 

Dean feels like he could sleep for a decade. He wouldn’t complain if he went to bed and woke up ten years into the future; if the worst of this was put behind them all. Just a bitter scar in their memories, an old pain that cannot dictate their lives anymore. He thanks Jody again and hugs her. She kisses him on the cheek and promises she’ll stop later in the evening with dinner. 

Dean watches as Jody gets back into her car and drives off. Then he walks to the front stoop where Cas waits, shifting on his feet. 

“Bed?” Dean asks.

Cas shakes his head. “I’m dirty.” The smell of antiseptic and blood still clings to him. 

Dean pulls the house keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door. It creaks open. The house is musty, full of the stench of closed doors and windows, of no sunlight, of being un-lived in for sometime. 

Cas steps over the threshold.

Everything feels better. Not right. But better. Cas is back home where he belongs. The home they bought together, built their life in together. He stands in the center of the foyer, looking around. Dean sees dust in the air and makes a note to start a deep clean tomorrow. Right now, all he cares to do is drink in the sight of Cas being home, of Cas appraising the photos, the walls, the ceiling. One small step, and Cas is making his way up the stairs, hand gripped tight to the railing. 

Dean fights the urge to follow Cas up. Cas disappears out of view. Less than a minute later, Dean hears the water start to run.

Not knowing what else to do, Dean goes to the living room and sits on the couch. 

Balthazar and Sam show up soon after. Balthazar is incensed by the vandalism, but Dean doesn’t have the spoons to think about it too much. There’s so much more that takes precedent, a little graffiti doesn’t even scratch the surface. He’s used to the general assholery of their neighbors, anyway. 

Sam runs his fingers across the side tables and frowns at the thick layer of dust that sticks to his skin. “Gross.”

“I’ll clean tomorrow,” Dean says. 

Sam shakes his head. 

“No, we’ll do this now.” Sam disappears into the laundry room and comes out with dusting spray and kitchen cleaner. He shoves the kitchen cleaner into Balthazar’s hands, with a gruff, “Get to work,” and then Sam is wiping down the tables, lamps, the TV. 

Balthazar cleans the counters and the appliances, and soon Dean finds the energy to stand and start vacuuming. It’s mindless work, but it gives him something to do, something to focus on. It feels good. And he feels better, watching his hand do some good before his eyes. The house smells clean. Dean hadn’t realized how dirty the house really was. He has to clean out the vacuum twice, and that’s just cleaning the living room. There’s still the entire upstairs, the bathrooms.

But starting small is good.

An hour slips by in the blink of an eye. The water still runs above their heads. 

“Want me to start on the garage?” Sam asks.

Dean shrugs. “Knock yourself out. I’m not that worried about it right now.” 

It clearly had upset Cas, but Dean can’t be bothered with the opinions of some stranger, especially one that didn’t have the balls to come and say something to their faces. If this asshole wanted to hide behind his spray paint, so be it. He wasn’t worth Dean or Cas’s time. 

“Might need to break out the power washer.”

Dean groans and rolls his eyes. “Think that’s in the attic.” The thought of going up those rickety stairs, digging through the attic, finding it, pulling it down, and then having to put it back up...

“I can grab it.” Balthazar says. 

Dean waves his hand in a  _ go-ahead _ gesture. He doesn’t care. 

The water stops running a few minutes later. Dean fiddles around for a while, not really doing anything. He pushes the picture frames around, re-arranges the lamps and the fake plants. After about five minutes, Sam gives him a look, and Dean makes his way up the stairs, two at a time. He hesitates outside the door, before pushing it open. 

Cas is curled on his side on the bed, away from the door. His hair is still wet. His skin is covered with goosebumps— the hot water must’ve run out, and he must’ve stood there under the cold spray.

“Hey,” Dean whispers as he sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under his weight. It’s incredible to see Cas in their bed again. It feels like home. Like maybe they can finally put this nightmare behind them. 

“I missed this bed,” Cas says.

_ I missed you _ , Dean thinks. He puts his hand on Cas’s forehead and brushes his bangs back and forth. The bruises are starting to turn an ugly yellow color as they heal. But Cas is not wracked with tremors anymore. He’s not moaning in pain. He’s not staring vacantly at nothing. He smells like his usual shampoo, and he’s on his side of the bed, and if Dean didn’t know better, he could swear everything was just a bad dream. A long nightmare, but one they can finally wake up from. 

The world is large and scary, and there are scary things to dwell on. Where is Uriel? Why didn’t Cas mention him earlier? Will he ever? There are so many uncertainties. Dean is diving in deep waters, blind, unprepared. He’s not equipped to deal with this level of trauma; but he’s going to have to. Cas needs him. 

Dean curls onto his side, leaving a small breadth of space between him and Cas. It feels like there’s a crater between them, one Dean doesn’t know if he’s allowed to cross. Cas’s lashing at Balthazar is still fresh in his mind, visceral. Will he be treated the same way? He doesn’t think he can handle rejection, even if he knows Cas isn’t really rejecting  _ him _ . 

He can stay like this for now. Enjoy having Cas close enough to feel his warmth, see the rise and fall of his chest. It was a sight Dean thought he’d never get to see again. Cas sleeping is the most incredible sight. Dean could watch it forever. If he never moved from this spot ever again, Dean would die happy.

  
  
  


He must fall asleep eventually, because the next thing he knows, Sam is knocking on the bedroom door. Dean rubs the sleep out of his eyes and stretches. Sam knocks again.

“Jody brought dinner.”

It’s just after six in the afternoon. Cas is awake, but laying there, blinking at the wall. He’s relaxed, and Dean is loathe to disrupt that. His hand lingers in the space between them, hesitant, before he reaches over that valley that separates them. He touches Cas’s shoulder gently; when there is no negative reaction, Dean exhales, and lets his hand rest heavy and firm on Cas. 

“You ready to eat?” Dean says quietly. 

Cas rolls his shoulder. “Okay,” he says. Cas sits up. Dean can’t take his eyes off him, drinking him in, every part, even the ones that pain him. Cas’s bones stick out against his skin. His bruises are stark against his skin, which is paler than Dean has ever seen. The air of confidence that always clouded around Cas is gone; now, he moves timidly, like an abused dog.

Cas puts on his slippers--an act so innocuous, it’s nearly enough to make Dean cry. He thought he’d never see Cas put on slippers again. 

Sam is gone by the time they open the door, but Dean can hear his voice carry up the stairs, along with Eileen, Balthazar, and Jody. 

They wait at the top of the stairs awkwardly. Cas stares down the bannister, listening to the conversation. Eileen is talking about work, and occasionally Jody chimes in, with shock or disgust at the realities of working in a nursing home.

Dean begins walking down the stairs and then Cas follows after him, gripping the railing tightly. 

When they get to the kitchen, everyone stops talking and holds their breath. Four pairs of eyes focus onto Cas, who shifts uncomfortably at the attention. Thankfully, Sam notices, because he touches Jody’s shoulder, asks her about the girls she’s fostering. Jody goes into a story about Claire and Kaia, two girls with troubled pasts, and how they’re adjusting. The eyes move off Cas, and Cas slithers to the table.

Dinner starts soon after. Jody brought a large pot of beef stew (“Something easy on his stomach,” Jody whispers into Dean’s ear) and Dean spoons servings into everyone’s bowls. It’s like an awkward Thanksgiving dinner. Jody talks to Eileen and Sam, Balthazar sulks most of the meal, and Dean watches Cas watch everyone. His eyes dart around, bouncing between the conversations, watching every move with precise calculation. He eats slowly, and mostly just the broth and not anything of substance. 

“I’d love to see your girls sometime,” Eileen says, smiling widely. “I bet they’re just amazing.”

Jody snorts. “Amazing at making a mess, that’s for sure.”

“They’re so lucky to have you as their mom.”

Jody blushes and clears her throat. “Well, nothing’s official yet. But here’s hoping.”

“Tell you what,” Dean says, “anyone would be a real moron to not want you as their mom. Especially with this cooking.” Dean gestures to his bowl before taking another bite. 

“It’s from a can,” Jody says. 

Dean shrugs. “Still good.” Better than the hospital coffee and vending machine doughnuts he’s been living off almost the past week. It’s warm, steam still curling from the broth, and it actually has protein. It has flavor, instead of just tasting like ash in his mouth. The meat is perfectly cooked, the carrots are soft, and it reminds Dean of his mother’s home cooking on rainy, winter days.

They’re going to have to see her and dad soon. Dean’s barely spoken to them during this ordeal; even after Cas was found, it was Sam that called them with updates. Right now, though, it feels like a chore. And Cas doesn’t need to be thrown into all these reunions. He’s clearly exhausted. 

For now, they’ll wait, let the days go by, let the bruises heal, and let their lives start to move on. 

* * *

  
  
  


Dean does the dishes. The water is soapy and warm and it feels good. Sam and Eileen bid their goodbyes, and Eileen gives Cas a long hug and whispers something in his ear. Cas smiles shyly and nods. Sam claps his hand on Cas’s shoulder, says he’ll be by later, and then they’re off. 

Cas and Balthazar sit in the living room watching TV, while Dean and Jody clean up. 

“Thanks, Jody,” Dean says.

“It was nothing.” Jody leans against the counter, looking into the living room. The TV plays an old Disney movie. “How’re you holding up?”

Dean’s caught off guard by the question. He takes his hands out of the water and dries them on his pants. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t have to play dumb, Dean. I work with trauma victims every day.”

“I’m not a victim.”

“Aren’t you?” Jody asks without judgement, just quizzically, head turned sideways. “Violent crimes affect the family, too. You need time to heal, as well.”

“It’s not about me,” he snaps. “Cas is the priority right now. It’s about taking care of him.”

“And who’s going to take care of you?”

“Cas has gotten me out of some pretty dark spots in the past, okay? Now it’s my turn to help him. Seeing him get better is all I need right now.”

Jody continues to look at Dean with a question in her eyes. It makes his skin itch. Dean clears his throat and lowers his voice.

“Anything on that Uriel guy yet?”

Jody frowns. She sways on her feet. “Henrickson told you?”

Dean nods. 

“Nothing more than a few days ago. But he’ll show up. He’s not as crafty as Alastair was. Total junkie. He’ll need his next hit sooner than later, and he’ll mess up, and get caught.”

“That’s what you said about Alastair.” 

Dean says it without malice, but it’s still stern and desperate. Cas isn’t safe, not until everyone who hurt him is gone. If a maniac can break out of a top security prison and kidnap him in broad daylight--what’s going to stop anyone else from trying to hurt him? 

Jody puts her hand on Dean’s and squeezes it. “Just let it go, Dean. Don’t waste any thought on it. It’s not healthy for you or Castiel. He’s home now. Be with him. He’s going to need you every step of the way. Your attention cannot be on other things.”

Dean swallows. He knows she’s right, but his mind is racing, heated with all the fiery thoughts of worst-case scenarios. How can he not think of the man that helped torture Cas? The man that is still out there? The danger that lurks out in the world everyday is now in the forefront of Dean’s mind; its work sitting in his living room. Cas is home, but their journey is not done. Not even close. If the police won’t do anything, Dean will jump in the Impala and hunt down Uriel himself. 

“What therapist did the doc refer him to?” Jody asks. 

“Some lady named Pamela, I think.” Dean still has the card. He’s going to have to call tomorrow. Another bullet point to the laundry lists of tasks. 

“Pam’s a good lady. Known her for years. She’s a bit, uh, unorthodox. But she’s great at her job.”

The smile leaves Dean’s face. Unorthodox? What does that mean? He tries to ask, but Jody yawns.

“I should leave y’all alone now, I guess. You two probably haven’t had much time alone, right?”

Hardly any, except for the night in the church, which Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. Cas’s broken cries still echo in his ears. Jody leans in for a hug, patting Dean on the back. It’s a tight, comforting embrace; Dean wishes he could stay there forever. 

“Take care of him, okay? And call if you need anything.”

“I will,” Dean manages to say.

And then Jody is gone, and the house is eerily quiet, save for the sound of the television. Cas sits on one end of the couch, Balthazar on the other, a gap existing between them. Balthazar twitches every few seconds, and his eyes keep darting over to Cas. He wants to say something, but doesn’t. 

There’s an immense urge to sit down in that space between. He resists. As much as he loathes Balthazar, he can also emphasize. They’re both big brothers. Dean imagines if it was Sam that vanished, only to reappear battered and different. Cas needs time to be with his brother.

“I’m going to shower,” Dean says.

“‘Bout time,” Balthazar says. 

Cas doesn’t say anything. Dean waits. And waits. And no response comes. So, he turns up the stairs and gets under the spray of the shower, hoping that, eventually, he can feel clean again. 

  
  
  


* * *

He hears the shouting once he comes out of the bathroom. He’s still dripping wet, with only a towel around his waist. He bolts out of the room and stops at the top of the stairs, nearly falling down them face first. 

“You can’t stay here!” Balthazar says. “Come home with me, please, at least for a while—”

“I’m not leaving!”

“It’s not good for you. You need to be away. We’ll get you the help you need, from real doctors, not some backwater hicks that probably went to vet school—”

“Those “hicks” are my neighbors, my colleagues, my clients—”

“There’s real sunshine, real food. You just need to get away from here. You’re less than an hour away from that horrid place. Naomi and Zachariah will be home—”

“Is that supposed to convince me?”

“They’re our family!”

“No!” Cas’s cry silences Balthazar. Dean waits, silent, for what comes next; torn between racing down the steps and wanting to hear what else Cas will say. “My family is here. Dean, Sam, Eileen, they’re my family. And you, of course. But my life is here.”

“Is this a life really worth holding onto?”

“It’s  _ my  _ life.”

“I just--I just don’t understand why you hang on to these people. You could’ve gone to New York, been on track for senator—”

“I didn’t want that.”

“What is so good about bumfuck Kansas?”

“Dean. His family.”

At the top of the stairs, Dean holds his breath. 

“You’ve never understood Balthazar, but they accept me, they love me—”

“I love you!”

“Then why weren’t you at my wedding?”

Balthazar’s jaw audibly shuts. Dean feels like he’s been punched in the chest; and he also feels like an awful, awful person. He’s not supposed to be listening to this. He’s an invader on their private moment. 

“Or my graduation?” Cas continues. “If you love me, why is our relationship so conditional? Why is it always about what  _ you _ want for me? I’m not a little kid anymore.”

“I know that,” Balthazar whispers, but Cas cuts him off.

“Then why do you keep treating me like one? You’re not dad.”

“Don’t you  _ dare _ compare me to him, you have no idea what he was like. You were too young to remember.”

“Then why do you try and treat me like I’m your kid?”

Balthazar doesn’t answer. Cas huffs. “I’m not going to Santa Monica. I’m staying here. And if you bring it up again, you will be asked to leave.”

“Cassie—”

“I’m going to bed.” 

Cas’s footsteps come towards Dean. There’s no time to move. Cas is at the foot of the stairs and he looks up at Dean. Time stops for a moment as they look at one another. Then, Cas begins the mount up the steps, slipping past Dean. 

Balthazar follows and stops.

“How much did you hear?”

“Enough.” Dean fights to keep the anger out of his voice. They’d already had this fight. The doctor had sided with Dean. He’s pissed and hurt that Balthazar would try  _ again _ , this time when Dean wasn’t around. He’s pissed that Balthazar keeps trying to sap all of Cas’s energy. Pissed that Balthazar keeps upsetting Cas.

Cas heads to the bedroom. 

Dean waits there for several moments. Balthazar putts around downstairs, the floor creaking under his weight. Dean has nothing to say to him. Cas is absolutely right. Balthazar has never been there for Cas. He comes and goes at his leisure, mostly when he has something to gain from the visit. 

He’s Cas’s brother, and Dean understands more than anyone the importance of family. With the childhood Cas and Balthazar had, Dean understands why Cas holds on so fiercely to the relationship with his brother. 

But god, he wishes Balthazar would grow the fuck up. It’s not about him. It’s about Cas. 

Dean turns and follows Cas into the bedroom.

He steps over the threshold and Cas is on him, pressing him against the wall. His lips are on Dean’s, and they’re chapped, cold. Dean’s taken off-guard and stands still while Cas wraps his arms around Dean’s neck, and attempts to pull him towards the bed.

“Cas?”

“I want you to fuck me,” Cas whispers against Dean’s ear.

Dean freezes. “Uh, I—”

Cas lays on the bed and pulls Dean on top of him, still kissing, running his fingers through Dean’s hair. Dean’s body does not respond to the touch, not the way it normally would. He looks at Cas, still so skinny and bruised, and there is still the smell of blood lingering in the air. The pictures of that shed flash in his mind. Torture he still doesn’t truly know about. 

Dean pulls back. “Cas. Cas, stop.” 

He doesn’t understand. How can Cas want this, after what he’s been through? He’s not thinking straight. And what kind of monster would Dean be if he went with it? He loves Cas, craves him, but this--this is wrong. He can’t do this. It’s too soon, Cas is still hurt, body and soul, and Dean can’t take advantage of that.

Cas hesitates, looking up at Dean wildly. He still hangs on to Dean’s neck. Dean gently pries away. 

“Cas, this--this isn’t a good idea.” Dean doesn’t have a lot of experience dealing with trauma victims, but he knows this much. They can’t do this. Not right now. There is nothing Dean wants more in the world than to be with Cas, be with him like he thought he’d never get to be again. 

But it isn’t about what Dean wants. It’s about what’s best for Cas. This is not it. 

Cas looks at him. His gaze hardens. He pushes Dean off him with an angry huff, curls on his side, and disappears under the blankets. 

Dean feels like he’s been slapped. He touches Cas’s shoulder, but Cas yanks away.

“ _ Don’t _ ,” Cas snaps, curling further away. He’s almost hanging off the edge of the bed, just to get away from Dean. 

Chastised, Dean pulls away.

The space is between them again. Dean doesn’t know how he’s going to cross it this time. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My Tumblr](https://castielsdisciple.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the skipped update last week! As you can imagine, these past few days have been. . . interesting. Stay inside, wash your hands, and let fic entertain you as everyone takes precautions!

( _If you are not reading this on www.archiveofourown.com, it is stolen and reposted without my permission.)_

When Dean wakes up, Cas is gone. The divet in the bed is still in the shape of Cas’s angry form. Dean’s brain doesn’t quite process the image. He reaches over cautiously with his hand and touches the space. It’s cold.

Dean jumps out of bed, throws on his robe, and races clumsily around the house. Cas is not in the bathroom or the guest bedroom—Balthazar’s still in bed, snoring obnoxiously. The living room is empty. The kitchen as well. Quiet and lifeless. 

Panic bubbles in Dean’s throat, nails digging into his scalp. Everything looks untouched; there’s no sign of Cas anywhere. Barefoot, Dean runs out the front door, down to the edge of the driveway. He’s panting already, mind racing a mile a minute. What does he do? Call Jody? 911? Sit and wait, like he’s done for the past two months?

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to do anything. Cas’s form appears down the road. Dean sprints to meet him, ignoring the sharp pain of asphalt in his foot, and he swallows Cas up in a hug. 

“Where were you?” Dean asks, unable to stop his voice from cracking.

“I went for a walk,” Cas snaps, pulling away. “I’m allowed to do that, aren’t I?”

Dean feels like he’s been slapped. “Yeah. I just—I didn’t know where you were. I was worried.”

“You don’t have to worry about me.” 

Dean resists the urge to shake him. Is Cas crazy? Is just that careless? Of course Dean has to worry—Dean’s always worried, about everyone. But especially Cas. Last night plays fresh in his head; a movie he can’t pause. It’s on loop. The shattered look in Cas’s eyes. Cas’s sharp, cracked,  _ Don’t _ . Dean’s starting to doubt how he handled it. He knows he was right to not have sex with Cas—how can Cas even want that right now?—but did he say it right? Cas keeps flipping between hot and cold so violently, Dean can’t keep up. He’s getting whiplash from the moodswings. He can’t stop the thoughts that barrage his mind. Maybe he’s making all this worse.

He falls into something he does know: take care of the people he loves. 

“You’re not even wearing a coat,” Dean says, shaking his head. He puts his hand on Cas’s shoulder and starts to steer him towards their front door.

“You’re not wearing pants. Or shoes.” Cas frowns. 

“It’s fine,” Dean says. “It woke me up. Better than a cold shower. Let’s just get back inside.”

“I’m not fragile.”

Dean bites his lip to keep from saying anything he’ll regret. Anything that will upset Cas more. He’s aware they are on a precipice, and if he keeps pushing, Cas will jump. Jump and run away. To where, Dean doesn’t know, but Cas is strong, independent. He’s not tied down easily. He came back home this time, but he could easily walk out the front door and not come back, not look back. Be gone forever, and Dean could never know what happened. Which straw broke the camel’s back. 

_ But you are fragile _ , he thinks.  _ It doesn’t have to be a bad thing _ . 

Over ten years ago, Dean was at his rock bottom. Sammy had moved away, Dad was on the brink of a relapse, Lisa dumped him—the pistol in his glove compartment looked more tempting by the day. 

Something brought Cas to him that day. Dean still remembers it as easily as yesterday. A harried young man in a suit that didn’t fit came into the shop with an ugly car Bobby called a pimpmobile. The man was fretting about missing his court appointment, frantically typing on his PDA and Dean—Dean didn’t know what came over him. He offered a ride. 

Cas has been by his side ever since. 

Everyone worried at first. They worried a lot. Worried that Cas was just a rebound from Lisa, that Dean was setting them both up for heartbreak. But the more time Dean spent with Cas, the more he knew. Cas wasn’t Lisa. Dean loved Lisa, but time allowed Dean to understand the truth. He and Lisa weren’t meant to be. Cas filled in a part Dean didn’t know he was missing.

Cas saved Dean’s life and he doesn’t even know it. Dean’s not going to let Cas destroy himself.

He turns to a role he’s intimately familiar with. Caretaker. “How about some breakfast?” 

* * *

Bacon and eggs. Classic comfort food. Dean makes more than necessary because he’s still put off by how thin Cas is. Cas has always had a healthy amount of muscle, rewards of his near Sam-like obsession with morning jogs and fruit smoothies. Sitting at the buffet, he looks like a different person. A stranger in Dean’s house.

He puts a plate down in front of Cas. Cas pokes at the eggs, pushing them around his plate.

“I was thinking,” Dean begins and Cas looks at him with an aura of annoyance, “that therapist—we should call, right?”

Cas looks away and stabs his scrambled eggs. “I’m not seeing her.”

Dean’s heart twists. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t  _ want _ to.”

“Jody knows Pamela. Says she’s a great lady, knows her stuff.” 

“I don’t doubt Jody’s assessment. But I’m not going.” Cas takes a small bite of eggs, but chews  as though it’s sawdust. 

“It’ll help. To talk about it.”

“Will it?” Cas stares at Dean with an intensity that makes Dean’s skin itch. Dean feels like he’s one of the many defendants Cas has stared down throughout the years. Dean’s no different. He’s on the stand and Cas is trying to get a confession out of him. 

“You have to try.” Dean’s voice is quiet. His words are weak to his own ears. 

“I  _ have _ to?” Cas doesn’t raise his voice. He just continues to stare Dean down, like he’s a predator and Dean’s prey. It’s little wonder Cas is able to make even the most deplorable of men shake and cry on the witness stand. Cas doesn’t have to scream and throw things. His presence is intimidating enough—like he takes up half the room the second he steps in.

Dean tries to keep his voice even. “No. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”

“Good. Because I don’t want to go. I don’t want to talk about it.”

_ Not even with me _ ? rests unsaid on Dean’s lips. He stands awkwardly by the buffet and tries to eat, but his appetite is gone. 

A few minutes later, Balthazar appears. His eyes are bloodshot, with dark bags resting on his skin. He looks at Cas like there’s something he wants to say. But his mouth stays closed. It’s a blessed reprieve, one Dean never thought he’d get. After a moment, Balthazar turns to Dean.

“Groceries? What do you need? I’ll pick it up. I just need to get out of here for a bit.” 

Dean’s taken aback by the lack of hostility. Moreover, by the fact that Balthazar’s offering to do him a favor. His mind buffers as he thinks. “Milk. Bread. The usual staples, I guess.” Dean hasn’t had time or energy to do an inventory of supplies. It never seemed that important. He barely ate these past two months anyway. Food was never on his list of priorities. 

Balthazar nods. “All right, then. I’ll be out. Call me if you need me.” His eyes slide back over the Cas, who is pointedly looking down at his plate. His scrambled eggs are somehow pulverized. The bacon is untouched. Balthazar leaves. Without his presence, Dean is truly alone with Cas for the first time since this whole ordeal began; even back in the church, there was still an essence of company. Nurses and doctors and patients not far away. Whatever God Cas believed in, listening in on their conversations.

Now, it’s just them.

The terror curdles in Dean’s stomach. He realizes in that moment he’s a coward. He turns and races up the stairs, into the bedroom. His heart hammers against his chest. His lungs ache. 

Dean searches through the dirty laundry until he finds the card. 

_ Pamela Barnes _

_ “See” the difference  _

Dean calls the number typed out on the bottom. It rings two times before someone answers.

“This is Pam.”

“I’m Dean Winchester.” His throat is tight. Somehow, he can hear the woman on the other end smiling.

“Ah. I was expecting your call.”

“Jody tell you?”

There’s a light chuckle. “No. Not quite.””

Dean’s confused. But he doesn’t know what else to say. “Any chance you have any appointments available?”

* * *

That afternoon, Dean pulls up to a modest looking house on the edge of town. He sits in the car, taking deep breaths. Therapy’s never been something he considered. He’s kind of like Cas—doesn’t really see the point in purging his heart out to some stranger. Talking about his feelings never did anything. He’d rather do something about it.

But there’s nothing to do this time. Nothing to make things better. And everyone keeps looking at him with pity and concern. Maybe this time a stranger can help. Maybe Pamela won’t stare at him like everyone else has been. And Dean needs to talk about it, even if Cas won’t.

He amps himself up and gets out of the car. When he knocks on the door, there’s the distinct sound of a dog barking, and a stern,  _ that’s enough, boy _ .

The deadbolt scraps against the door and then it’s swinging open, and a woman stands in the doorway, smiling.

“Dean Winchester,” she says, smiling. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

The first thing Dean notices is her milky-colored eyes. He gapes for a moment, before he realizes what he’s doing, that he’s being rude.

“Uh, Pamela?”

“The one and only. Come on in, Deano.” She turns and walks into the house. Dean pauses, swallowing, before he lets himself in. “Close the door behind you, please,” Pamela says. “Otherwise this fleabag here will take off.”

The dog—some kind of mutt—whines in offense. Pamela laughs and scratches him behind his ears. 

Dean takes stock of the house. It’s filled with stuff he’s only ever seen in movies. Crystal balls, long, dark drapes, herbs on a table all scattered around the main room. Symbols are painted on the walls.

“You’re a therapist?”

“Of a sort.” She’s still grinning. She sits in a chair, crosses her legs, then motions for Dean to sit across from her. Dean does, sinking into the plush furniture like he’s drowning. The dog jumps up next to him, sniffing vigorously. 

“Down, Brutus,” Pamela says, snapping her fingers. The dog huffs one more time, then jumps off the couch and curls on top of Pamela’s feet. Pamela claps her hands and leans forward. “So, Dean. What do you want to talk about?”

Dean keeps looking around the room, flabbergasted by the decorations. “How about firing your interior designer?”

Pamela laughs. It’s nasally, but cute, and her body language is relaxed, languid. “Not what you were expecting, eh?”

“You could say that.” Dean swallows. “So, really? What’s your shtick?”

“Do you believe in the supernatural?”

“You mean ghosts and shit? You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.” Pamela even draws out a cross over her heart, still grinning. “I’m psychic.” 

Dean nods. “Okay then. Sorry for wasting your time.” Dean stands, the couch creaking when he moves, and begins to walk towards the door.

“You drive a ‘67 Chevy Impala,” Pamela says. Dean stops. “It was your father’s. He was supposed to buy a VW Van to care for his growing family, but he saw that beauty and couldn’t help himself. He gave it to you when his eyes started going bad.”

Dean turns, fists clenched. “Jody tell you that?”

Pamela still grins. She leans further forward. “You work at Singer Auto. Have ever since you were sixteen. You like working with cars because they’re easy to fix. Find the problem, get the right part, wham-bam-thank you ma’am. People though are a bit tricker. Can’t just replace a gas line or a radiator or a flux capacitor on a person. And that’s why you’re here, because you need help fixing your husband.”

She says everything so nonchalant. Like she’s a narrator for a prescription commercial. Anger boils under Dean’s skin. And fear. How can she possibly know all that? It’s like she’s dissecting his brain, putting each of his thoughts under a microscope.

Pamela motions back to the couch. “Sit. And talk.”

There’s a commanding edge to her voice. One Dean can’t ignore. He sits back down. The dog looks at him, teeth slightly barred. A growl emites low in its throat. 

“How do you know all that?”

Pamela puts her hands up in a  _ what can you do _ motion. “You told me. Your mind—it’s so loud. Screaming, really. Like you’re thinking through a megaphone.”

Dean glances around the living room once more and then—unable to help himself—laughs in disbelief. “A psychic? Really?” 

“I understand it can be hard to wrap your head around it. But I assure you, I am real.”

“And you’re gonna help me and Cas?”

“I will do my best. Of course, for me to best help Castiel, I need to  _ meet  _ him, but I suspect. . . “ she squints and chews her lip. “It will be a challenge to get him here, I imagine. He’s more stubborn than you.”

“He refused to come with me.”

She rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically. “Ugh. Men. Contrary to what you believe, it actually won’t kill you to talk about your feelings.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. “That’s what I’m here for.”

She gives a toothy grin. “Well then—I’m all ears.”

Dean doesn’t know where to start--at the beginning seems too cliched, but also, too confusing. Because where is the beginning? When he and Cas met? When Cas was kidnapped? The days in the hospital? There’s too much information, too much to unpack, not enough time to do any of it.

He takes too long to answer. His mind is like alphabet soup—too many thoughts racing around at once. Turns out, he doesn’t need to say anything. 

“You’re concerned for his well-being,” Pam says. “Do you think he’s suicidal?” 

“I--I don’t know.” The thought of it is almost too much to bear. “It’s been. . . it’s been different. Cas has always been like a rock. Things don’t get to him.”

The image of their reunion—of Cas clinging to him, crying—is still unnerving. The first time Dean had seen Cas cry in all the time they’d known each other. 

Dean swallows and looks at his nails. They’re chewed and covered in hangnails. 

“I’m at a loss,” Dean says, sighing. “I don’t know how to make things better.”

“Is it your job to make things better?”

“Yes,” Dean snaps. “He’s--he’s my husband. For better or worse, we said. I’m supposed to take care of him.”

“Of course you take care of him. But is it your job to make things  _ better _ ?”

Dean shakes his head. “I--I don’t understand.”

“You can’t undo what’s been done. You can’t take the bad away, can’t take the pain away. ‘Better’ is a relative term, after all. He’s better now than he was last week, wasn’t he?”

Dean looks down at his feet. The dog tilts his head and whines. 

“You are making things better by just being,” Pamela continues. “Face it, this is your life now. You and Castiel are living in the after chapters of an ordeal. You’re always going to be living in these after chapters now. There’s no deleting, no second-drafts. This is the one you’ve got.”

“How can we work through it? He won’t admit there’s anything wrong.” That’s not quite the truth; Cas had admitted there is wrong. He’s just wrong about what’s wrong. He’s too fixated on the fact that he killed Alastair to process anything else. If they can’t make it over this first obstacle, how are they gonna finish the race? Dean’s told Cas he’s done nothing wrong. The police have told Cas he’s done nothing wrong. Balthazar too. Cas won’t believe any of them. 

“Lead a horse to water,” Pamela says, then shrugs.

Dean feels his blood pressure rise. “That’s all you’ve got? More wait it out? Lady, trust me. That’s a game we’ll all lose. Cas can outwait a rock.”

Pamela’s lips twitch into a small smile. It incenses Dean even more.

“I thought you were supposed to help us! I thought you were an expert.”

“What, you thought you’d come to one therapy session and all the world’s problems would be solved? Everything would be made right again? Castiel isn’t even here. Therapy doesn’t work second hand, dear. And anyway—I’m not here to fix your problems for you. I’m here to help you help yourself.”

“That—that doesn’t make sense!” Dean stands to his feet, towering over Pamela and the dog. The dog raises his head and bears its teeth, ears pulled to the back of his head. Pamela still smiles, relaxed and unfazed. “It’s not about me! It’s about Cas. I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or not do, or what will send him flying off the rails. Nothing he does makes sense!”

“How do you mean?” Pamela’s voice is calm, nearly motherly. 

Dean gulps. His heart slams in his ears and he’s starting to sweat. “He wanted to have sex last night.”

“Did you?” There’s a pique of interest in her voice. 

“No,” Dean snaps. “I’m not an idiot.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I don’t understand why he would want that. After everything.”

“The human mind often works irrationally. We want things that are bad for us, or want things that don’t make sense.”

“He got pissed at me when I said no.”

“Well, I’d be pissed too if my devoted husband rejected me.”

Dean feels like he’s been slapped across the face. He shakes his head. “I didn’t reject him.”

“Didn’t you? He asked you for sex. You said no. Sounds like rejection to me.”

“I said no because it would’ve been  _ wrong _ .”

“Maybe it would have been. But think of this from Castiel’s perspective. He’s been through an awful trauma. He’s trying to return to some sense of normalcy, but no one around him will let him. Imagine if you were treated with kid gloves by everyone around you. Imagine if everyone’s eyes were always on you. Waiting to see how you would react to any given stimuli. Things that should be considered normal--having sex with your husband of ten years--are now considered crazy.”

Dean stares at her with an icy glare.

“I’m not saying you were wrong to turn down the sex. If you didn’t want it, you have that right to say no. But if you said no because you think it was necessary to protect Castiel’s mental state—understand you may be achieving the opposite effect.”

There’s empty air between them. Pamela still stares directly at him, and it’s like her eyes are needles digging under his skin, fishing for a vein. Finally, Pamela breaks the silence. 

“So, see you next week? Bring Castiel if you can.”

Dean shudders. “Are you really psychic?”

She shrugs. “That’s for you to decide, I suppose.”

“Can you find people?”

She laughs. “It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid. I have to be close to the person to sense anything.”

“So, you find Robert Uriel?” 

“Afraid not, sugar plum.” 

Defeat chills Dean’s blood. He thanks Pamela for her time anyway, even though he’s not sure he feels any better leaving than he did entering. If anything, he’s more confused than ever. 

The sky rumbles with thunder.

* * *

When Dean gets home, it's pouring rain. Balthazar is in the living room, watching  _ Ru Paul’s Drag Race _ , but Cas is nowhere in sight.

“Where is he?” Dean asks, exhaustion heavy in his bones.

Balthazar points to the ceiling, the floor of their bedroom. “Been up there all afternoon. Tried to get him to come out for lunch.”

“How’d that go?”

“He threw a glass at me.”

A headache starts right behind Dean’s eyes. He needs a stiff drink. A warm bath. A nap lasting one thousand years. 

Balthazar pauses the television. “Look,” he says. “You and I have had our differences.”

Dean snorts. Understatement of the century. 

“But we both care about Cassie. It’s probably the only thing we’ll ever agree on. We need to take care of him. And I think it’ll be good for him to get away from here for a bit.”

“Oh my god,” Dean growls, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He doesn’t want to go to Santa Monica! Drop it.”

Balthazar glares. “Would you let me finish? I’m not talking about Santa Monica. I’m talking about somewhere that’s not here. Oklahoma. Nebraska. Colorado. Just somewhere. It’ll get him out, give him space to clear his head.”

“You know as well as I do that Cas won’t want that.”

“Babies don’t want to get their mumps booster. Good parents still take them.”

Dean has no retort. His shoulders sag and he sighs, head pounding. He turns to the kitchen and grabs a beer out of the fridge. It hisses as he pops the tab open and he takes a long, slow drink. It’s flat, but Dean chugs it down anyway. 

“What are you thinking?” Dean asks Balthazar.

“A movie? The zoo? Disneyland? Just anything but here.”

Dean hates to admit it. But Balthazar does have a point. 

He needs to get out of here too. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just finishing this up now, unbeta-ed, so please forgive any errors. 
> 
> WARNINGS: In this chapter, Castiel begins to speak about his abuse. There is discussions of violence and rape. Keep yourselves safe.

The next day, they go to the movies. It’s the middle of a weekday showing, so the room is nearly barren. There’s the three of them, a young mother and her two children, and an elderly couple. No one else apparently is in the mood for seeing an animated kid’s movie. 

They set up camp in the very back room, pressed into the corner. There’s popcorn, sodas, and candy galore, courtesy of Balthazar. Cas picks at the popcorn for a little bit, but is otherwise uninterested in the food. He rests his chin in his palm and leans in the chair for the duration of the movie. 

When they leave the theatre after the movie ends, Dean sees he has a voicemail from Jody. 

“I gotta use the can,” he tells Cas and Balthazar, then walks the opposite direction.

The voicemail is curt. “Dean, call me.” Dial tone.

Dean hits re-dial. It rings twice before Jody answers.

“Are you sitting down?” she asks.

“Should I be?”

“Uriel’s been arrested.”

Dean stumbles until his back hits the brick wall. He feels like the air has been punched out of him. He wraps one arm protectively around his gut.

“Really?”

“Got caught in Texas, just like we thought. Was headed to the border. Pulled over for speeding, of all things.”

Dean forces the tears to not fall. “What now?”

“He’ll be extradited to Kansas City. That’ll take a day, maybe two. Then we’ll start getting the ball rolling. The D.A.’s been wanting to sink his teeth into this ever since Castiel was found. We lawmen like to look after our own, after all.”

Dean exhales. A weight he didn’t know he was carrying lifted. His shoulders rose a little. He is renewed with a spark of energy. There’s something he can fight now. No more sitting on his hands. No more puttering around while the police followed deadend after deadend, calling Dean with somber tones of “we’re following every lead, we’re not giving up, we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

In two days, Dean can finally confront what hurt Cas. And finish it.

“Henrickson will meet you at your house,” Jody continues. “We need a statement from Castiel to really get this ball rolling.”

Dean turns. He can see Balthazar and Cas waiting by the car. Balthazar is talking, but Cas doesn’t seem to be paying much attention. He’s staring at his shoes. 

Dean realizes, looking at that sight, that he is still at the bottom of a very steep, uphill battle.

* * *

After Jody hangs up, Dean waits. And waits. And waits. Ideas putter around in his head. How does he handle this? How does he bring it up? Does he just jump in, or does he try and wade in the shallows first? Will Cas push him away even further?

He forces himself to walk outside and towards the car. Balthazar frowns and his eyes ask a silent question:  _ what happened _ ?

Dean opens his mouth. He means to ask  _ how about lunch?  _ Or  _ the movie was pretty good for a kid’s film, right _ ? But what comes out instead is “They found that Uriel guy.”

Cas goes rigid. Balthazar stares at Dean, puzzled. It occurs to Dean then that Balthazar must not have any idea what Dean’s talking about. Of course Cas wouldn’t have said anything about Uriel to him.

“How do you know about that?” Cas asks, leveled.

“Henrickson told me, at first. Then Jody called just now.”

Cas huffs. He pointedly avoids looking Dean in the eyes. He opens the car door, crawls inside, then slams it shut.

“What are you talking about?” Balthazar demands. “Who the hell is Uriel?”

Dean looks at Cas through the window. “He’s a nobody,” he says. He sighs. “So much for our relaxing afternoon.”

Balthazar still has questions. It’s obvious from his face. But this isn’t the place to answer those questions. And Dean’s not sure he’s strong enough to answer them when they do come. 

But most of all, Dean knows Balthazar will have questions Dean simply won’t know the answer to. And Dean hates that most of all.

* * *

Henrickson appears at their home three hours later. Dean meets him in the driveway when he sees the dark SUV pull up. They shake hands and exchange polite greetings.

“Glad to come with good news for once,” Henrickson says with a smile. Dean doesn’t have the energy to return it, but Henrickson is unfazed.

“How have things been going?” Henrickson asks.

Dean shrugs. “Rocky. But I’m hoping they’ll be better now.”

“Me too.”

Dean leands Henrickson inside, offers him something to drink. Henrickson asks for an iced tea and Dean is grateful for the excuse to leave and make one.

Henrickson sits with Cas and Balthazar in the living room. 

“Do you think you can answer some questions for me?” Henrickson asks, pulling out his tape recorder. 

“No,” Cas snaps.

Henrickson sighs. “Castiel, please. You know how this goes. We can’t design a case against Uriel unless you tell us what happened.”

“Everybody already knows what happened. There’s no secrets. You had your investigation. You’ve done the forensics. There’s no reason to talk to me.”

Dean carefully enters the living room, Henrickson’s glass in hand.

“Of course there’s reason to talk to you. It’s your story.”

“It doesn’t need to be told.”

“Don’t you want justice?”

“What I want is to move on with my life.” 

Dean waits behind the couch. He passes the glass to Henrickson who takes it gently, tells Dean thank you. He takes a long sip, then puts the glass down on a coaster.

“This is how you move on,” Henrickson says. “Until Uriel is put away, you’ll be stuck where you are. In this Purgatory. The best way to move on is to make sure justice is served. Make sure he can’t hurt anyone else ever again.”

Cas looks over his shoulder at Dean, face an unreadable mask. Then he looks back at Henrickson.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Privately.”

It’s like a gut punch. Someone stuck their hands into Dean’s stomach and they’re twisting his organs counterclockwise. He coughs and tries to keep the hurt from showing on his face. Henrickson looks at Dean knowingly though, and there is an order in his eyes. Dean opens his mouth, prepared to argue, but the calculating gaze Cas is giving him shuts him up. 

“I guess,” he coughs, throat itchy and raw, “I can do some errands.”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Henrickron says. 

“Take Balthazar with you,” Cas says. 

Dean feels like he’s been rejected for the prom; and then he feels stupid for feeling bad, because this is what Cas wants, this is what’s good for Cas—

He can’t stop the screaming in the back of his head.  _ Why won’t you talk to me? For better or worse, we said. We’re in this together _ . 

He doesn’t say anything though. He just nods curtly at Henrickson’s professional gaze, stutters a little, and then vanishes to find his brother-in-law, and hopefully not wring his neck.

  
  


* * *

“I’ve never understood him,” Balthazar says. They’re at the nearby park. Children race around in games of tag, and parents sit by watching and gossiping. “I love him, with all my heart, but I’ve never  _ understood _ him.”

Dean sits and pokes at his taco-truck meal, appetite waning. He can’t shut out the hurt in his heart. It feels like Cas slammed a door in his face and locked it. 

“We weren’t surprised when he went into law. We were surprised when he went into criminal law, though. I don’t know how he does it. Everyday, he’s seeing what the worst of humanity has to offer. Killers and rapists. And he’ll still smile at the lady in the check-out, help an old man cross the street.”

“That’s Cas,” Dean says dully, crumbling up the last bits of his food.

“Cassie’s never worn his heart on his sleeve. He’s always been very stoic, even as a child. Nothing seemed to faze him. He rolled with the punches. I’m never quite sure what he’s thinking at any moment, I think that’s his advantage in the world. No one knows what’ll he say or do next.”

Dean thinks back to his meeting Henrickson, back in Kansas City. Cas got Alastair from behind--took him by surprise. 

“But he’s also never been unpredictable,” Balthaar continues. “I know if I say something to him, he won’t react outright. He’ll be controlled. This is all new territory for both of us.”

“I don’t like it,” Dean says. Balthazar snorts. 

“You think I do? This is possibly the worst time of my life. Worse than when dad went away.”

“I just don’t know what to do.”

“At least we’ve got that in common.”

“Everyone keeps saying, give it time, give him room--but, what? Am I just supposed to pretend nothing happened? How does life go back to normal after this?”

“It can’t,” Balthazar says. “I don’t know. But if I come within one hundred feet of that Uriel fucker, I will rip his spine out.”

Dean nods. “I’ll be right there with you.” 

Balthazar stares into the side of Dean’s skull. Dean pointedly does not make eye contact; does not think he could handle it. 

“What do we do from here?” Balthazar asks. 

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “Pamela said some mumbo-jumbo,  _ just be there _ shit, which. . . it’s not enough. Being there isn’t enough, isn’t going to heal anything, isn’t going to stop the nightmares, or erase the scars. Feels like I’m just sitting on my hands.”

Balthazar regards Dean for a moment, then huffs. “At least you’re not sitting on your hands alone.”

Silver linings, Dean supposes. He should be grateful. Even if they’re cheap as hell.

* * *

Dean grabs Henrickson as he gets ready to slide into his car.

“Well?” Dean says, arms wide open. Henrickson stares at him, lips pursed. 

“Well what?”

“You have anything to say?”

“I got the statement from Castiel. I’ll get it to the D.A., and Uriel will be formally indicted by tomorrow morning.”

“That’s great,” Dean says, “but what did Cas tell you?”

Henrickson chuckles darkly and stares at the ground, shaking his head. “I can’t tell you that, Dean.”

“Why not?”

“Attorney-client privilege.”

“You’re not an attorney!”

“Touche.” A sardonic smile. “But I am a man of my word. Castiel will tell you when he’s ready. It’s not right for you to hear it from me.”

“If I don’t hear it from you, I won’t hear it from anyone! C’mon, Vic—” Henrickson glares at the nickname — “you’ve spent the past three hours grilling him. He’s barely said a word to me since we got home. If he can get away with never telling me, he’ll try it.”

“Dean—” 

“I’m tired of being kept in the dark! I deserve to know.”

“ _ Dean _ .”

Dean stops, chest heaving. Henrickson looks at him, steady, calm, but with an aura of authority that comes from working a job filled with misery. Henrickson is saying,  _ I hear you _ , but he’s also saying,  _ Listen to me, now _ . He gulps and takes a step back.

Henrickson smiles sadly at him. “It’s not my story to tell. But you’ll know it, soon enough.”

“That’s not enough,” Dean says. “That’s the same thing everyone’s been saying! I can’t wait any longer. It’s going to drive both of us insane.”

Henrickson sighs, put upon, and looks to the sky. Perhaps he’s saying a silent prayer. Dean’s nails bite into his palm. “It’s good you’re worried about him,” Henrickson says. “But you can also worry about yourself, too. You’re a victim as well.”

Dean shakes his head, fighting back tears,  _ again _ . “I’m--I’m not.”

“Your life has been upheaved. Your mind is filled with pain. You need to take time for yourself too.”

Henrickson opens his car door and tosses his messenger bag inside. He climbs inside and takes one last, long look at Dean. “Life does go on. Things like these, they don’t have to be the end. I’ve seen it, all Dean, crimes that make grown men fall to their knees and cry to their god. And I’ve seen survivors crawl up from the darkest pits of hell. The human spirit is a marvelous thing. It’s what lets mothers lift a car off their injured child, allows a group of boy scouts to survive a winter in the mountains, keeps a person alive in a plane crash. People are stronger than we ought to give them credit for. Castiel’s strong too. I knew it first time I saw him. Give him some credit.”

Henrickson puts his seltbeat on. “I’ll call with updates. You call if anything pops up.” Then, he’s closing the door and turns the engine on. Dean steps back, and watches the SUV pull out his driveway, then disappear down the street. Dean waits. It doesn’t come back.

The house behind him suddenly feels like a monster, looming over his shoulder, eager to swallow him up. 

He enters the house. Balthazar is making dinner on the stovetop and Cas, like always, is nowhere to be seen.

Dean inhales, filling his cells with courage, and marches up the stairs, like a soldier to his death. He opens the bedroom door to see Cas waiting on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Dean waits in the doorway, fingers tingling. “Talk to me, please?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Dean steps inside the room, closes the door, then waits in the middle. “That’s not true, actually. There’s a lot to talk about.” 

Cas looks at him, eyes dark. He exhales, then looks away, to the ceiling. He crosses his hands over his chest. 

“Please,” Dean says. “Just tell me something.”

“Why?”

Dean falters. A string of nonsense comes out. He hates this. Hates that he doesn’t know how to react to Cas anymore.

“Would it help you to sleep better,” Cas begins, staring at some far off spot on the ceiling, “to know that he shot me so full of smack, I can still taste it in the back of my throat? Will you feel better if you know that they would take turns raping me so that one of them would always be able to ‘get it up’ at any time?”

Dean’s throat is tight. Cas talks like he’s far away, underwater. He takes a step forward. “Cas?”

“Do you want to know that the first thing Alastair did when he put me in that shed was put that rod in my urethra? Or would you rather know every item he shoved up my ass to, quote, “save time”?”

Cas’s tone is robotic. Like he’s reading from a car manual, instead of reciting things that actually happened to him. Like maybe if he thinks hard enough, it won’t have been him, but someone else. All of Cas’s career has been about fixing things that happened to other people. Now it’s him, and he doesn’t know how to process anything.

“Or would you rather hear about how he’d cut me everything he orgasmed? Would that make you feel better, Dean?” This time he turns to face Dean. His gaze is impassive.

Dean’s heart thuds in his chest. He swallows and steps closer. He’s seen the pictures, seen the bruises and cuts over Cas’s body, read the articles all about Alastair’s crimes. He knows what happened. It’s different hearing it out of Cas’s mouth. It makes it real, pops the bubble, and Dean really has to face the reality that this is not a bad dream, this is their life.

He takes another step. And another. He sits on the edge of the bed. It sinks under his weight. Dean waits, then slowly cards his fingers through Cas’s hair, cognizant to avoid the spot that’s still tender. “Thank you for telling me,” Dean whispers. Cas huffs and closes his eyes. 

“We’ll get through this,” Dean says, voice cracking. “Together. Just like we’ve gotten through everything, right?”

Cas shivers. There are goosebumps on his skin. Dean waits, and then lays parallel to Cas. One hand in Cas’s hair, the other laying flat on Cas’s chest. Cas exhales and presses the heels of his palm into his eyes. He’s taut like a coiled spring. He inhales, exhales. Inhales, and there’s a hitch, a gurgle. 

“Does it make you feel better,” Cas continues, “if I say I grabbed the knife and I  _ shoved it  _ into his neck? There was a crunch. I stabbed him again. And part of me--part of me was vindicated.”

“You should’ve been,” Dean says. “Cas, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I did. I killed a man. I wanted to kill him and I did.”

“He was hurting you. He would’ve hurt others, you know he would.”

“Does it absolve me?”

“ _ Yes _ .” Dean turns onto his side, pressing into Cas’s flank. “Cas, you’re a hero.”

Cas shakes his head viciously. “I’m a murderer. A sinner.”

Dean pauses, tongue fat in his mouth. He swallows and tries to pet Cas’s hair gently, hoping it’s calming. He doesn’t know what else to say. They’ve crossed the gorge, made progress, but they’re not over the mountain yet. The climb has just begun.

“You’re a good person,” Dean whispers against the shell of Cas’s ear. “You do good. What you did— he would’ve killed you.” The thought makes Dean’s throat ache; tears burn in his eyes. “When Jody told me, I thought you were dead. I thought, ‘This is it. I’m never going to see him again.’ That phone call, that you’d gotten away? That was the best news of my life. Whatever you did to get out, I don’t care. I really, really don’t. You got out, you’re alive, that’s all that matters.”

“You don’t understand,” Cas whispers. 

Dean licks his lips. “No, I don’t. But I understand this—” Dean takes Cas’s hands and put it over his heart. “That’s beating. You’re here. Whatever you did to get here— it doesn’t matter.”

Cas’s breath hitches again. 

“Don’t make things worse for yourself by keeping your thoughts so dark,” Dean says. “You did good. We’ll make it through.”

“Together?”

“Together.”

Cas’s eyes peel open. Red-rimmed, he gazes at Dean, fuzzy, like he’s half-conscious. 

“I talked to Jody’s friend, Pam.”

Cas chuckles darkly. “ _ You  _ went to therapy? Hell must have frozen over.”

Dean smiles sadly. “I think you should see her too.”

“Why?”

“To— to get it out. It’s gonna fester if you keep it in.”

Cas closes his eyes. Swallows. Sighs. “Okay,” he whispers. 

Dean exhales. Tension uncoils in his stomach. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

It’s a start Dean’s grateful for. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story ended up coming to a nice conclusion in this chapter. It be like that sometimes. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your wonderful comments and encouragements. This was my first time writing an AU fic, and you were all so gracious. Your comments often were the best part of my day. 
> 
> I hope everyone is staying safe. If you're a healthcare worker, a grocer, a gas station employee, or a restaurant worker, thank you helping keep society stable at this crazy time. You're so appreciated! 
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Two days later, Alfie shows up.

He texts Dean when he’s at the door, and shifts nervously from one leg to another when Dean sees him standing on their front patio through the window. 

“Hey, kid,” Dean says with a smile, ushering him in. He ignores the pool of regret in his stomach about not reaching out earlier. Alfie was fine, physically, and because Dean didn’t know what to do or say, he ended up doing nothing, and waited, and waited. Waited far too long. “You’re looking good.”

Alfie smiles. It’s a goofy grin; lop-sided, but authentic. “You look better, too.” 

It’s not completely true, Dean knows. Alfie saw him before the weight loss, before the sleepless nights, before the breakouts. He still hasn’t put everything back on, and he’s not up to par, but he does feel better. So much better than the first night. 

“Get settled,” Dean says, clapping his hands. “Cas is in the shower, but he’ll be down in a jiffy.” 

Alfie nods, sits on the very edge of the couch in the living room, and folds his hands over his knees, picturesque of some boarding school brochure. 

It is awkward. Dean barely knows the kid, and their last interaction wasn’t a joyous occasion. But Dean looks at him and remembers the footage Jody showed him. The kid in front of him aimed a gun at a known psychopath. That takes guts. 

A few minutes later, Cas comes down the stairs. Alfie turns his head. There’s a brief moment of shock, as he takes his first look at Cas in months; as he takes in the thinness, the paleness, the yellowing bruises. Dean sees it flash across his face for a matter of two seconds before Alfie composes himself, stands, and waits.

Cas pauses when he sees Alfie. He knew Alife was coming over, but Dean suspects there’s still an element of shock overcoming him. 

“Hi, Castiel,” Alfie says. Cas pauses a moment, before swallowing, then stepping forward and embracing Alfie. Dean feels like he’s intruding on a moment, and looks awkwardly out the window. He sees a neighbor jogging with her dog. A few cars drive by. 

Finally, after what seems like hours, Cas says, “I’m so happy you’re okay.”

Alfie starts crying. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I could’ve stopped him—”

Cas shushes him. “No. None of that. All that matters is you’re safe.” Cas takes a step back, but keeps a fatherly hand on Alfie’s shoulder, and looks him directly in the eye. “You were so brave.”

“Not brave enough.”

“No, you were brave. Most people would’ve run, but you faced danger head-on. That’s admirable. Not many people would’ve stood at that door like you did.”

Alfie sniffs, face flushed and nose runny. “Thank you for saving me,” he whispers. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Cas smiles sadly and shakes his head. “Yes, I should have. And I’m glad I did.”

“You’re a hero,” Alfie says, still sniffling. Cas shakes his head again. 

“I’m really not.”

“Well, you’re  _ my _ hero. My mom’s gonna be sending you a Christmas card for the rest of her life.”

“I look forward to it.”

For the first time, Dean feels like there is a future ahead. 

* * *

Dean drops Cas off at Pam’s house, watches him go inside, then waits in the car. He fiddles with the radio and tries to pass time by playing games on his phone. His attention never lasts longer then a few minutes. He’s constantly looking at the door and the clock in the car. The hour drags on, and the more Dean waits, the more nervous he becomes. He wonders what’s going on behind that door. Wonders what they’re talking about. He wants to be a fly on the wall, listen in, fill in the gaps of what Cas won’t tell him. 

Finally, the clock reads four minutes past the hour and the door opens. Pam waits by the threshold and Cas walks out. He turns back and waves goodbye, shyly, before stepping down the rickety stairs and towards the car. 

Cas slides in and rubs his arms. The weather’s starting to turn. Dean figures it won’t be long before the first snow falls. 

Dean puts the car in reverse. “Lunch?” he asks, breaking the silence. He only looks at Cas out of the corner of his eye. 

Cas nods. “I think I’d do anything for a burger.” 

Dean grins, even though it’s small. It’s the first time Cas has expressed any interest in food since he came back. 

He backs out of Pam’s driveway and onto the main road, then takes off, tension uncoiling in his stomach. 

* * *

Life starts to return to normal. Cas goes back to work, despite Dean’s initial reluctance, but the effect on Cas is almost immediate. He needs something to do; needs to feel like he’s doing something good for the world.  _ Idle hands are the devil’s playthings _ . The color comes back to his cheeks and he starts to put weight back on. He also starts to sleep better. There’s still restlessness and nightmares, but Dean notices Cas can have two to three hour stretches of uninterrupted sleep, which is a godsend compared to the first few weeks back. He understands what Pam meant when she said Cas wanted normalcy. It’s getting back into those routines that start to unveil that Cas Dean’s always known.

The press is still an issue. Microphones shoved in his face, reporters waiting outside his office. They throw mean, triggering questions at him. The word  _ hypocrite  _ is their favorite. “Do you feel like a hypocrite?” they keep asking, as he tries to go from his office to his car. Cas doesn’t answer, not even to tell them to piss off (which Dean gladly does any chance he gets). Cas ducks his head and gets in his car and leaves. Once it gets really bad, Jody and Donna do a good job of keeping them at bay, though, and once even Henrickson threatens to charge them with harassment, and then again with interfering with a federal case. 

Dean too eventually has to find his way back to work. It fills the hours between Cas’s absence. Balthazar goes back home, though he still calls daily, the anxiety still ever present in his voice. The strangest thing about all of this is the new kinship’s Dean found with Balthazar. They’re not friendly— Dean doubts they’ll ever reach that level of comfort and familiarity. But there is understanding now. 

“He doesn’t remember dad, not really,” Balthazar said the night before he left; Cas had gone to bed early, but Dean was still too ancy to sleep. Somehow he and Balthazar ended up in the kitchen, drinking, well into the night. “But I remember. And I remember how distraught he was when dad left. It broke his heart. He wouldn’t sleep alone for months. For months, he kept asking,  _ when is daddy coming back, where did daddy go, why did daddy leave _ . He didn’t understand. I didn’t either. Still don’t. Don’t know where the bastard went, why he just waltzed out one day. The only thing I knew for sure was that I had to protect my baby brother. I never wanted to see him like that again. For the longest time, it was just us. Our dad ditched, our aunt and uncle are less than useless— but we could always depend on each other.

“Except, now I think that wasn’t enough. Actually, now I think that Cassie was pretty lonely, for a long time. He never really had friends in school, or college, or work. I think right up until he met you, he was lonely. A part of me hated you for that. Made me feel like I wasn’t good enough for my own brother. I guess I wanted what we had back when we were kids. You understand that, don’t you?”

Dean does. He remembers the nights before his own father started attending AA, before the twelve steps. He remembers the screaming, the nights where he didn’t even come home, consoling an anxious and crying Sam. It was a horrible sight, one that still makes Dean’s heart ache when he reflects back on them. 

He and Balthazar will probably never see eye to eye, but he does understand, and the rage about Balthazar’s earlier actions dissipates. The fire fizzles into a low steam, and then it evaporates. When they see Balthazar off at the airport, Dean waves and nods as he disappears past TSA. Cas holds onto Dean’s hand, tight and warm, and Dean doesn’t feel the wave of joy he normally does once Balthazar leaves. 

Cas continues to see Pamela every week. He rarely talks about his sessions, but the walls he built up start to come down, slowly. Some nights he lays with Dean and talks, and Dean listens, wordlessly. It hurts to know how Cas was hurt. But it also reminds him of how strong Cas is. He doesn’t let the pain stop him from helping the people that need it. In fact, Dean thinks he sees Cas go to work with a renewed vigor. Cas always had a big heart— it was obvious to anyone who got close to Cas. He emphasized easily, and always looked for ways to help others. But now, he truly understood his clients, and their families, in a way he never had before.

Their biggest hurdle right now is Robert Uriel. A name that still whispers insidious things in Dean’s mind at night. Their challenge that keeps them anchored to this nightmare. 

* * *

It’s nearly two months later and they’re back in Kansas City. Dean hated the drive there. Now that he was the one driving, he was too conscientious of all the connotations this place had. Driving into the city felt like driving back into a nightmare. 

“I don’t understand,” Dean complains, before they leave. “Why can’t they bring that asshole here?”

“Jurisdiction,” Cas says simply, shrugging into his jacket. He’s started to put weight back on now, and is looking more and more like his old self every day. His clothes almost fit him the same now. At the very least, they don’t hang off him awkwardly, like a child dressing up in their parent’s clothes. “It’s where the crime took place.”

Dean mumbles some more under his breath, but too low for Cas to hear. Sometimes Cas still talks about his experiences like he was merely an observer, or someone researching about it. Pam calls it  _ disassociating _ and says that it is normal, not to make too big a deal of it. Dean always tries to do what she thinks is best. She is the expert after all. 

The drive is less than an hour, but it seems to stretch on forever, for Dean. The road is endless, the buildings are just repeats of the same buildings they already passed. It’s like he’s stuck in a time loop. Dean and Cas don’t talk during the drive. Dean doesn’t even play the radio. It’s just the roar of Baby’s engine and the cloudy sky ahead of him.

He doesn’t realize they’ve reached their destination until he’s parked in front of the police station. Cas stares ahead, head high, and swallows. 

“You okay?” Dean asks, worry chilling down his spine. He glances Cas up and down. Cas is tense, and maybe a little sweaty, but there might be more that Dean can’t see. More that Dean won’t know about unless he asks and pushes. 

Cas inhales, then slowly exhales. “I think so.”

“We can go back,” Dean says, already preparing to stick the car in reverse and head back home. He won’t put Cas through any pain. 

Cas shakes his head and smiles sadly. He looks at Dean. His eyes are not teary or glazed or far off. There’s a confidence in them that’s been lost for months. Dean’s heart twists with pride, in a tragic way.

“No,” Cas says. “We can’t. I have to be here.”

With that, Cas unbuckles his seatbelt and exits the car. Dean follows. The police station looks the same as the last time Dean was in there, and Henrickson is already waiting for them in the lobby. He greets them, shakes their hands, and smiles, and he does not ask how they’re doing, or about the drive. He leads them to a room that’s familiar to the one Dean was already in, months ago, and they sit down. Henrickson sits across from them and sighs happily. 

“So,” he says, clapping his hands, “it looks like Uriel’s going to take the deal.”

Dean’s eyes glance towards Cas to vet his reaction. There’s nothing to suggest whatever Cas might be thinking. His face is as impassive as always. Henrickson is unperturbed by this. He slips the black binder towards Cas. It’s two inches thick and chock full of all kinds of papers— hospital records, photographs, arrest reports, news reports. Cas flips through it idly and Dean pointedly looks away when there are photos of the shed and photos of Cas’s injuries during his hospital intake. 

“Life without parole,” Henrickson continues. “Saves him from facing a jury, and the needle. And of course gives you closure. You know how these things go.” Henrickson waits with bated breath. He sniffs, then unfolds his hands and leans back in his chair. “Unless of course you’ve changed your mind. Nothing’s set in stone until all the i’s are dotted and all the t’s are crossed. We can rescind, if you want.”

Cas shakes his head. “A trial would only draw things out,” he says, still flipping through the binder with all the interest of a high school student looking at their math textbook. “Months, possibly years, of indictments. Humiliation. Testimonies, witnesses.” He shakes his head again. “Besides,” Cas says, with a grim smile, “a judge would push for the death penalty. The jury would for sure. I don’t want that.”

Henrickson, to his credit, doesn’t say anything. He listens intently, nodding along with Castiel at the appropriate parts. Dean keeps his mouth shut. There’s a lot he wants to say. Poisoned arguments on the tip of his tongue. He wants to shake Cas by the shoulder, prays that will knock some sense into Cas’s head, but he knows it’s a futile endeavor. Cas will always be Cas. Cas will always lend a helping hand to those who need it, and he will lend his second hand to those who don’t. There are some people out there that just don’t deserve mercy, in Dean’s opinion. People that deserve the worst of punishments. There are people that don’t deserve the life they’re given.

Cas will never agree to that, though. He’ll listen politely to Dean’s arguments, smile, nod, but the end is always the same. He believes only God has the right to determine if someone deserves death. He doesn’t want any part in it. 

“My hands are already bloody,” Cas continues, and it’s a struggle for Dean to swallow down any protest he has. He hates that Cas still sees himself in the wrong for what happened in that shed. Hates that nothing anybody says will make Cas see differently. He doesn’t want Cas to spend the rest of his life carrying guilt over something he did, when he did nothing wrong. He doesn’t want that to be Cas’s life. 

Henrickson nods, though like he understands. And maybe he does. For the first time, Dean considers: has Henrickson killed in the line of duty? Does he mourn the lives he’s taken, even if the people were monsters? 

“I think you’re right,” Henrickson says. “You’ve done a good job of getting your life back to normal. A trial would upend that. Justice doesn’t always happen on the courtroom floor. It can happen behind concrete walls too.” 

Cas smiles slightly. A twitch of the lips. He passes the binder back to Henrickson, who takes it. 

“I’ll tell the D.A. you want him to just take the plea. We’ll get it signed probably by tomorrow morning, and then, I hope to never see you again.” He says it in a playful, jovial manner. Dean appreciated the sentiment. He hopes so too. He knows their lives will never go back to normal, but he at least wants less FBI involvement. 

Henrickson stands, the chair screeching across the cheap flooring.

“Wait,” Cas says. Henrickson pauses and looks at him. Dean does too. “Is he here? Can I talk to him?”

Henrickson gives Cas a long look. Dean does too. Dean and Henrickson share a look. Seconds tick by.

“I want to talk to him,” Cas says, more sternly this time. It’s a demand. Bile rises in Dean’s throat, but Henrickon nods his head. His eyes never break contact with Cas’s.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll see where he’s at. Get him in a cell.”

* * *

“This is a bad idea,” Dean says. His arms are crossed and his stomach is queasy. He stands in front of a two-way mirror. For the first time, he sees this Uriel dick in person. Dean wants to break into the room and strangle him with his bare hands. Forget being in a police station. Forget all the witnesses. He doesn’t care.

Cas has just entered the room and is waiting by the door. Dean can barely make him out, he’s pressed into the corner. Per Castiel’s request, the sound to the room is turned off. They can see what happens, but whatever is being said stays inside that room. 

“Have some faith,” Henrickson says. “This might be good for him.” 

Dean snorts. “Really?”

Henrickson nods. “It’s not uncommon for survivors to want closure.”

“He still has nightmares. He won’t admit it, but he’s scared of this guy.”

“Then he gets to face his fear. Dean, if you have a child with a fear of spiders, do you keep them away from spiders all their life? Besides, you don’t get to make choices for him. He’s an adult.”

“I  _ know  _ that, I just—” 

Dean’s distracted when Cas moves from his corner to stand in front of the table. And he stands. He doesn’t sit in the chair that’s behind him. He stands with posture and intimidation. Dean doesn’t need to see his face to know the glare that’s etched into Cas’s eyes. The steely determination. That resolve that Dean fell in love with. 

Uriel looks up at Cas, from his spot at the table. He’s handcuffed to the table and dressed in an orange jumpsuit. Cas towers over him right now, and Uriel looks very small. Dean can see Cas’s mouth moving, but he has no idea what Cas might be saying. Cas has kept so many things a secret inside his head. He’s opened up to Dean a little, opened up to Pam a little, but Dean knows there’s more locked up inside Cas’s brain. So much Cas still won’t tell him. It has to be eating him up inside. Maybe now he’s finally getting it out.

Dean watches, uncomfortable. His stomach aches. 

“I told you he was a fighter,” Henrickson says. 

Dean can’t tear his eyes off the scene in front of him. Cas is still talking, and Uriel looks disinterested, but Dean suddenly becomes aware of the power in that room. Cas’s spine is straight. His eyes never break away from Uriel’s face, even when there are times that Uriel looks away. Shame never crosses his face, but Dean swears he sees fear.

_ Good _ , Dean thinks.  _ You fucking better be scared _ . 

Life in prison sounds too good for any who’s committed the kinds of crimes this guy has. A bed and three meals a day and a gym and a library. But then Dean considers. Uriel’s a relatively young guy; about their age. He probably has at least another forty years left in him. Cas rotted in a shed for fifty days. Maybe it’s fitting he gets to rot in a jail cell for forty years. Every day for forty years, he’ll have to remember whatever Cas is saying to him. Every day for forty years, he’ll have to reminisce on the mistakes he made that led him back here. Every day for forty years, he’ll get to think and mull over the facts: despite everything that happened in that shed, Cas still came out the bigger, stronger man. 

“I’ve seen a lot of horrible things, Dean. I’ve seen the worst of humanity. The kind that makes you lay in bed some days and think,  _ is this worth doing? Are people worth saving _ ? Some days I think I must be crazy, to surround myself with all this crazy.”

He’s going somewhere. “And other days?” Dean asks. 

Henrickson chuckles. “And other days, I am reminded why I am here. I’ve seen the worst of humanity. I’ve also seen the brightest.” Henrickson clicks his tongue. “He’s one of ‘em. Takes a lot of guts to do what he’s doing right now. Life’s never gonna be the same, but you can tell he won’t let it hold him back, either. He’s a good man.”

“One of the best,” Dean agrees. 

Henrickson nudges him with his elbow. “You are too.” 

Dean scoffs and rolls his eyes. 

“I’m serious. I know the kind of toll this stuff takes out on you. You’re doing pretty good.”

“I’m doing mediocre.”

“I’ve seen worst. Way worse, believe me. There are people out there that can’t accept when bad things happen. Can’t accept that it means their life has changed. They try to ignore it, or try to rush through the recovery process. A lot of times the partner can’t handle the trauma. Because it is a shared trauma.”

Dean doesn’t say anything to that. It doesn’t feel right to try and claim trauma; he wasn’t there. He wasn’t the one being hurt, wasn’t the one locked away. Physically, he had everything he needed. 

Henrickson is still talking. “But you’ve done exceptionally well. And that deserves praise.”

“Well,” Dean says, sighing, “thanks, I guess.”

Through the glass, Dean sees a picturesque scene, of redemption and pain. And for a moment, Dean feels a stab of pity for Uriel. His future is bleak. He had escaped— he did his time, he paid his dues to society. He could’ve rebuilt his life. Instead, he fell back down the hole. 

Alastair was a creepy motherfucker, but Uriel looks like a normal man; unsuspecting. If Dean ever passed him on the street, he would’ve never suspected him capable of the atrocities he did commit. 

Cas’s shoulders slump. He turns around and walks towards the door. It buzzes when he exits, and Dean straightens his spine, but his feet don’t move. 

Cas walks towards Henrickson and shakes his hand. “Thank you,” he says. 

“Of course,” Henrickson answers. Cas meets Dean’s eyes. 

“You ready?”

“For what?”

Cas looks at Dean like he’s crazy. “To go home.”

Dean exhales and relaxes. His heart will always flutter whenever Cas calls their house  _ home _ . Home isn’t just the building. Home is the life they’ve built together, their families, their futures. 

“I’m ready,” Dean says. Cas nods and approaches Dean, taking his hand. They exit the police station and get back into the car. 

“Have you invited Sam and Eileen for dinner?”

“I can, if you want.”

“It’s been a while since we’ve seen them. It’d be nice to catch up.”

“Tell them right now,” Dean suggests. “You know Sam takes forever to get ready. If you want to eat a decent hour, he’ll need all the heads up he can get.”

Dean watches as Cas pulls up Sam’s number and sends the invitation. Sam responds less than a minute later with an affirmative, and Dean begins the drive home. The police station disappears in the rearview. 

“Are you okay?” Dean asks. “Did you--did you say what needed to be said?”

Cas smiles slightly, fiddling with his wedding ring. “I think so.” Dean observes Cas. He looks lighter. His shoulders and head are higher. The dark circles under his eyes are less noticeable. 

“Do you think you can tell me?” Dean asks, glancing from the road to Cas.

Cas chews on his lip. “Someday,” he says. Dean nods, gripping the wheel tighter. Someday. Someday is good. Someday is not never; someday is a future.

They drive in silence for several minutes. Not even the radio is on.

“Dean.” 

Dean glances hesitantly. 

“Thank you,” Cas says. “For everything.”

Dean really doesn’t feel like crying again. He takes Cas’s hand and squeezes it reassuringly. Cas squeezes back.

Taking in the fresh air, Dean drives towards the sunshine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My Tumblr](https://castielsdisciple.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Please stop by and say hi! I love talking to you people over there :)

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at castieldisciple. Come by and say hi! If you enjoyed, please leave a kudos/comment, I love interacting with y'all.


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